


Coming Home

by TawnyOwl95



Series: Eden Falls Farm Fics [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, And also beautiful, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxious Aziraphale (Good Omens), Anxious Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale is a snarky little bitch and I love her, Crowley is a Mess (Good Omens), Eventual Smut, F/F, F/M, Female Aziraphale (Good Omens), Female Crowley (Good Omens), Fluff and Angst, Gabriel is a dick, Homophobia, I have no idea how that happened either, Ineffable Wives (Good Omens), Kissing, Misuse of historical witches, Protective Aziraphale (Good Omens), Shadwell is an academic, Slow Burn, So is Sandalphon, South Downs Cottage (Good Omens), You can be both.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-10
Updated: 2020-03-12
Packaged: 2021-02-22 14:02:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 18
Words: 35,906
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22651135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TawnyOwl95/pseuds/TawnyOwl95
Summary: Aziraphale isn’t running away. She is making space to regroup after she caught her husband bending his PA over the kitchen counter. (She’ll never be able to roll out pastry there again!)Crowley is not hiding. She is taking a moment to recover from a stressfully successful career in London's financial sector (And all the questionable life decisions she made to pursue this.)They’ve both returned to their home town and aren’t expecting to fall in love again.  But with twice as much baggage and far more hurts than when they were teenagers, it’s going to take a miracle to stop history repeating itself.
Relationships: Anathema Device/Newton Pulsifer, Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Gabriel (Good Omens), Crowley/Hastur (Good Omens), Sergeant Shadwell/Madame Tracy (Good Omens)
Series: Eden Falls Farm Fics [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1700944
Comments: 369
Kudos: 395





	1. I levitate towards you

**Author's Note:**

> I'm afraid to post this. I'm going to do it anyway because I can be strong.  
> (Runs and hides under duvet)
> 
> Chapter Title is from Levitate by Imelda May

“Have you heard who’s moved into Marjorie Shadwell’s old flat?”

Crowley put down her paperback and peered up at Deidre Young over the top of her sunglasses. That was the nice thing about sunny days: wearing her glasses without be asked why. 

“No,” Crowley drawled, “I haven’t heard.” Although she could guess. Across the bustling square the glazed bathroom window of the flat in question was just visible over the façade of _Madame Tracy’s Teashop._

Deidre leaned in closer, near bursting at the seams with the deliciousness of it all. “Little Miss Angel Fell.”

Crowley, even if she thought so herself, did a very good job of looking unimpressed. So what if Aziraphale was back? Nothing to her, was it? The farmer’s market was winding down now and Crowley had sold nearly everything except some sweet potatoes. She’d bake them at home and eat them with a bottle of red. Alone, but happier for it. Honestly she was happy. Life here was slow and silent. She finally had room to breathe herself back into being.

Still, it wouldn’t hurt to indulge Deidre. It could even encourage her to actually buy something. One could but hope. Crowley lifted her eyebrows. It was all the encouragement Deidre needed.

“Marriage problems, I hear. Terrible shame as I suppose she _thought_ she’d done very well for herself. Have you seen her husband’s books?”

“Seen them on line.” Crowley had done some very targeted Googling the last few decades when she was drunk and hating herself more than average. Enough Googling that when the alleged separation of American TV Preacher Dr. Gabriel Flight and his wife was announced the algorithms thought it appropriate to drop it into Crowley’s news feed. She had tried not to look. She’d tried not to think that this could mean Aziraphale coming home. Those feelings belonged to an optimistic eighteen year old and not the fast approaching forty woman she now was.

Crowley made encouraging noises until Deidre ran out of steam, not really revealing anything that the American equivalent of the _Daily Express_ hadn't already. When Crowley refused to be scandalised Deidre walked off to find Mrs Tyler, always a more grateful recipient of gossip, and left Crowley in peace.

Crowley stared at her paperback for another few minutes. The heroine was in peril, and there wasn’t much to be done about it until the hero got his act together. It was trash. _Madame Tracy’s Tearooms_ was a far more intriguing prospect, and now the snakes were hissing in Crowley’s mind there would only be one way to silence them. Best just get it over with.

“I’m getting a coffee.” Crowley unfolded her legs and stood up.

Anathema desisted from packing up her few remaining jars of honey to deliberately hand Crowley two reusable coffee cups. 

“Yeah, alright,” Crowley groused. At least they were both black. Although one had ‘Blessed Bee’ on it and a rather happy cartoon bumble bee holding a flower buzzing around the rim.

_Madame Tracy’s Tearooms_ was a bizarre mix of chintz and occult. This wasn’t really Madame Tracy's (aka Marjorie Shadwell’s) fault. The fame of Tadfield was owed to a dozen unfortunate women who had been executed for witchcraft on the village green several hundred years go. That wasn’t their fault either, but it did mean that the village square consisted of a post office, a Tescos Express, a pub and several dozen shops peddling occult tat. It kept the tourists happy.

 _Madame Tracy’s_ was a mostly Jacobean building of dark wood offset against white plaster. The window glass was thick and green so the world outside was a sea-soaked dream. It made the light inside deep and like stepping into a fairy barrow. A fairy barrow that served tea out of floral mugs and had low hanging dream catchers that booby-trapped you on the way to the till.

Being a Saturday and market day all the tables were full. Crowley took a moment to adjust to the change in light levels and the tsunami of nostalgia that had just smacked her in the guts. Of course, she’d ventured in here since she’d moved back to Tadfield eighteen months ago. She'd just never expected to be in here again at the same time as Aziraphale.

Crowley sauntered up to the counter and, while a very harassed Newton Pulsifer called out that he’d be with her in just a minute, tried to peer through the service hatch to the kitchen.

Nothing to be seen but steam. No reason to be disappointed, no reason to presume that Aziraphale would be in the kitchen anyway. She might not even be baking anymore. Rich house wife that she had been, there had probably been an employee to do that for her. Crowley glanced aggressively at the cakes displayed next to the till as though she could divine Aziraphale’s presence from the way the icing swirled.

She ordered an americano and a latte, then on the off chance said to Newt, “The last of the leeks are coming through. Interested?”

“Erm…”

“I can wait.” 

Newt ran to the kitchen. Crowley’s spine contorted so she could get a glimpse through the door. Nothing. It was Marjorie who came out to haggle. The woman looked ditzy but was far too shrewd at business. All kind smiles and affection while sticking the knife in at every opportunity. Crowley could have got a better price selling to some of the five star restaurants owned by TV chefs that were down on the coast, but she liked Marjorie. Plus, she wanted an excuse to get into the kitchen, just in case. Deal done, Crowley wandered back to Anathema promising herself that was the end of it. Her mind snakes disagreed.

The leeks came through, eventually. While she was waiting Crowley developed quite the coffee habit. Marjorie was starting to give her a very particular type of I-can-see-through-your-bullshit smile every time she came in. So, Crowley stopped. 

Now, a week later she stood at the café’s back door, because of muddy work boots and all that, holding a crate of leeks. The mind snakes were hissing all sorts of nasty things. If it hadn’t been for the heaviness of the crate or that this was purely business, she’d probably have gone back home to bed.

Newt came to answer the bell, wiping the sleep from his eyes. He dithered adorably over whether to be a gentleman and take the leeks from Crowley or not. He was dating Anathema and probably wasn’t sure whether chivalric overtures would be entirely welcome. Crowley let him sweat it out until Marjorie came to his rescue, pulling open the door and saying, “You want coffee, love?” Then, because she was a devil added, "I've noticed you haven't been in for one in a while."

“Please.” Crowley took one last fortifying breath and hefted the crate in to a kitchen that smelled of warm sugar and spice. It looked much as it had when she'd delivered pumpkins last year. Big prep table, ovens throwing out heat and empty stands waiting for the cakes to be positioned. The cakes awaiting adornment were lined up on a silicon cooling mat. Aziraphale bent over them, lips rolled together in concentration. 

Crowley ate up her profile. The turned up nose was exactly the same, as were the powdery white curls escaping from a scarf so hideous that it must be Marjorie’s. Crowley was eighteen again, gangly and afraid, and so much in love that it felt like a stone pressing down on her chest whenever she moved.

Aziraphale didn’t look up. The skin at the corners of her eyes was softer and with the suggestion of wrinkles that would crease up when she laughed.

“Old friend here to see you, pet.” Majorie touched Aziraphale’s arm.

Aziraphale glanced up. Crowley held her breath. She was still holding the bloody crate of leeks, and there was mud coating the knees of her dungarees. Too late to check her hair. Should have thought of that first, but she'd been going too bloody fast as always.

Aziraphale’s eyes were like the sea, fading blue to green to grey and never fixing on a single colour. Her pupils widened as her gaze swept over Crowley. Feet to head and back again, and then repeated. Interesting.

“Oh! Ant…”

“Call me Crowley.”

Aziraphale blinked. “Of course, Crowley.”

“Like the bird, that’s it.”

“I remember.”


	2. Thought I was done with my heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two old acquaintances catch up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are some brief mentions of Aziraphale and her not so healthy relationship with food at the end of this chapter, and some of the other chapters. It's not that she overeats/doesn't eat enough, but that she's been made anxious about her obvious enjoyment of it. It's something that she works through. Mentioning it here though in case it may be a trigger for anyone. Message me at [tawnyontumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/tawnyontumblr) if you want more information. 
> 
> Title is from Imelda Mays Levitate again.

Aziraphale had never liked early mornings but she was starting to appreciate the peace they offered. Clutching her tea in both hands she sat on the fold out bed with the window open. The waxing moon was still visible above the crooked roof tops and a spring breeze danced through the leaves of the birch trees on the village green making them rustle.

Deidre Young and Mrs Tyler had already cornered her in the Post Office, and despite the trial of that she still didn’t regret coming home. She had almost ceased to think of it as running away. Running to, she told herself daily. To what exactly would become clear if she kept her mind and heart open. If only the latter would stop feeling so bruised.

It’d take time. That was why she was here. To give herself time.

When the tea was gone, Aziraphale made herself get off the bed and get dressed. Yesterday’s skirt and blouse were hanging on the screen that divided the bedroom from the kitchen. Aziraphale had wanted to get on a plane before her nerve gave out and had only packed what she could carry. Given the choice between clothes or her books, the books had won every time. They were balanced in precarious towers by the bed, and on the kitchen table, and in the bathroom. Old friends she hadn’t been able to abandon.

The clothes had been Gabriel’s taste really. His idea of how a preacher’s wife should dress and always just a little bit tight, as though that would encourage her to shift those last few pounds. Aziraphale deliberately moved her mind away from that and thought about the clothes she would like to buy when her finances were bit more stable.

Something comfortable. Something vintage, with maybe just a little bit of flare to it. She could be really daring and jazz it up with some tartan. 

She left Aunt Marjorie’s old flat, and thank God for Aunt Marjorie, to pad downstairs to the café. It was five in the morning and the world was still resting under a blanket of darkness. There was a chocolate cake to ice and biscuits to cook. There was time.

Newt came in to set up the tables while he yawned himself into wakefulness. He helped himself to the tea Aziraphale had made with a bleary, ‘morning’ and got to work. She liked Newt, he didn’t ask questions. At least not about her past. He was quite keen on learning her brownie recipe.

Aziraphale lost herself in the pleasure of making something that other people would enjoy. It was an old magic taking raw ingredients and transforming them into something whole. No, she didn’t regret coming home. Then Marjorie touched her arm. “Old friend here to see you, pet.”

Aziraphale doubted that. She had taken very great care to leave all her old ‘friends’ behind when she went to America. She looked up, bracing herself for another interrogation and saw Ant…oh, Crowley, then.

Crowley, Aziraphale didn’t know if she could get used to that, was stunning, even holding a crate of vegetables. She had always been provocative in her fashion choices, but the awkward Goth with traces of punk had grown into a woman who knew what her style was, and wouldn’t give a damn if you didn’t like it. From her muddy Docs to her black denim dungarees to the flame-kissed hair. Aziraphale dreamed of being bold enough to have a haircut like that. Waves tickled Crowley’s pointed chin on one side, and the other was shaved close to the scalp revealing a snake tattoo below her ear. Aziraphale didn’t look too closely at that in case she saw what it was supposed to hide. 

Crowley didn’t quite smile, but it was there just the same, fighting its way through her smirk. “How are you, angel?”

Aziraphale stiffened. “What?”

“You’re staring,” Crowley said.

“Don’t call me that.” She hadn’t come home for that. That good little girl was very much dead and buried. Aziraphale would quite like to keep her that way.

“Alright.”

“Why don’t the two of you go out for a bit?” Marjorie took the leeks from Crowley. “I’ll just start turning these into a soup of the day.”

Aziraphale washed her hands and followed Crowley cautiously out of the back door. They stood awkwardly by the bins. Not a dissimilar set up from the first time they'd really spoken, except that it wasn't raining and Aziraphale had given up smoking. Had Crowley? If Crowley lit up Aziraphale would definitely try and pinch one. She needed something to do with her hands. Her fingers twitched and she wrapped them together behind her back. “I didn’t think you’d still be here,” she said.

Crowley leant back against the wall, one leg bent so the sole of her boot rested against the brick. “Me neither.”

“And growing leeks, of all things.”

“I grow all sorts.”

Aziraphale waited what she considered to be a polite amount of time, but nothing else was offered. Ridiculous that her past could still toss her emotions about like this. 

“Well, thank you for stopping by,” Aziraphale said cheerily.

“Will you still be here in the summer?” Crowley deigned to turn her head, fixing Aziraphale with her dark lensed stare.

“I don’t know.”

“It’s berry season starting then. Gooseberry fool, blackberry tart. I could put some aside for you.”

“I’m sure Aunt Maj…”

“For you. You’re doing the baking now and…” Crowley was courteous enough to lower her voice. “…yours tastes better.”

“You’ve tried some?” Aziraphale doubted it. 

Crowley was slender as a willow. The sort of figure Gabriel would have appreciated, if it had worn something a bit, well, a very great deal more conservative. Aziraphale wondered when she would stop letting him sneak into all her thoughts. She knew it would take time, but she wanted some hope on the horizon. Something concrete to steer towards. 

Crowley shrugged. “I’m up at _Eden Falls Farm_ now. Absolute tip, but the roof doesn’t leak and the soil is good. I took it on when I came back from the City.”

Aziraphale didn’t ask. She had learned to appreciate it when people weren’t nosey. She knew Crowley had left Tadfield as soon as she could though. Then Aziraphale moved to the States on a Classics and Comparative Religion scholarship, and they’d lost touch. To be expected really. They’d never really been friends anyway. Aziraphale wasn’t sure she had a word for what they'd been. All she knew in that moment, and that was how Aziraphale currently tried to exist, was that it was good to see Crowley. Good and right, and absolutely bloody terrifying.

“You can pick the fruit yourself, if you _are_ still here. Always need help with that.” Crowley looked back across the alley. “Come up before, if you’d like. If you need some space.”

Space. Aziraphale thanked God for Aunt Marjorie and her flat, although even with her pathetically small pile of possessions she couldn’t walk a foot in any direction without falling over something. She could have stayed at _Shangri La_ with Majorie and Shadwell but she didn’t want to take advantage, and Shadwell was ‘hunting witches’ as he called it. That hurt. 

It hurt to see his books and notes on the Tadfield Twelve spread out in his study and to hear him talking research and peer reviews over dinner. Aziraphale had spent the first few years of her marriage wanting to scream _I have a doctorate too!_ at every post sermon tea she attended with Gabriel. It turned out that she hadn’t made as much peace with that as she thought.

Space sounded good. “Thank you, I might.”

Crowley nodded. “I’ll let you get on then.”

Aziraphale went back to work. Aunt Marjorie’s eyebrow of concern lifted at her from behind the soup pot where she chopped leeks. To Aziraphale the sharpness smelled like regret. She made herself smile, but her hands weren’t quite steady. When she messed up the icing on the next cookie in line she gave it to Newt. There was a moment when she was tempted to eat it herself but it was easier to abstain when there were other people watching, and Newt needed feeding up. She didn’t.


	3. How bad can a good girl be?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An invitation and a shared smoke.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the kudos. 
> 
> Song title is How Bad Can a Good Girl Be by Imelda May. Her album Life Love Flesh Blood fuelled this fic.

Aziraphale didn’t come to visit. Whatever. They hadn't parted on the best terms, had they? They hadn’t really parted at all. There’d been no ceremonial returning of each others stuff or thrown ornaments. Nothing that would have indicated that, well, there had been something between them to begin with. The point was that Crowley had swallowed her pride and anxiety to make the invitation. She had done the right thing. Doing the right thing felt shit.

Today’s paperback had more or less the same plot as the last one. Crowley didn’t really read them so much as use them as an excuse not to make eye contact with certain members of the community. She only really did the farmer’s market to share the cost of a pitch with Anathema who was ten years younger than Crowley and didn’t have bank accounts full of the ill-gotten gains of twenty years working in the City to fall back on if her business didn’t do as well as she’d like.

Anathema sat in the deck chair opposite Crowley, fanning herself with a flyer for the Bank Holiday May Day fete. They both favoured darker colours and as the weather warmed up it took its toll on their cool. Today Crowley had topped her outfit with a floppy straw hat and was just waiting for someone to dare to comment. 

“You should ask her for a drink,” Anathema said.

“Excuse me?”

“Aziraphale. Newt tells me that every time there’s a morning delivery now she nearly jumps out of her skin. Has to clean up the icing she’s sprayed up the wall.”

“Gossip is bad for your soul,” Crowley said while hoping the story about the icing was true.

“I don’t have a soul and neither do you.” Anathema fanned her skirt between her legs.

“True.”

Anathema watched Crowley through her thick rimmed glasses. “So?”

For a moment Crowley entertained the dream that her life could be a happy ever after romance as trashy as her novels. Then, “Nah, there’s history there.”

“Tragic history, I’m guessing.”

“Only if you’re being melodramatic.”

“Which of course, I am.”

Crowley smiled tightly. “How about if I told you it was none of your damn business?”

“I’d ask Aziraphale instead. Look, here she comes.” Anathema jumped to her feet and waved. Crowley slid the trashy paperback out of sight and made herself get up calmly.

Aziraphale negotiated her way politely through the tourists, a tall glass in each hand and a Tupperware wedged under her arm. She was glorious in the sunlight, hair shining like a halo and skin glowing. Far more fun to watch though when her manners gave out and she used an ample hip to carefully bump a gentleman staring at the war memorial out of the way. Then she was right in front of Crowley, and Crowley took the glass of pink lemonade before her brain got back into gear. 

“You both looked hot out here.” Aziraphale handed the Tupperware of muffins over to Anathema who, no doubt, appeared the more responsive of the two. “And hungry. I always make too much in the mornings.”

Anathema put down her own glass of lemonade and opened the box releasing the sweet and tart scent of lemon curd. “They smell great.”

“Yeah, thanks,” Crowley managed.

Aziraphale beamed. “Glad to be of help. Lovely to see you again, Crowley.”

“Are you free tonight?” Anathema grinned.

“Oh…I”

“We need a fourth for the pub quiz.” Anathema’s grin turned positively evil, but she carried it well.

“Oh, I don’t…” Aziraphale’s eye swung to Crowley, to Anathema, back to Crowley.

Anathema put her foot on Crowley’s and pressed down gently, but with the underlying threat of doing it harder if Crowley did not cooperate.

Aziraphale hadn’t been out in public properly for at least a week and Crowley suspected she knew why. Deidre Young and Mrs Tyler were still squeezing some mileage of how Little Miss Angel Fell had fallen.

Crowley reminded herself that this wasn't her problem and didn't doing the right thing make you feel shit? Her mind snakes were all up for a quiz night though, if it meant sitting across a table from Aziraphale.

Or next to Aziraphale, the snakes hissed. Your thighs could touch. It'd look like an accident.

"Come on." Crowley said. "You’re the cleverest person I know and no one will bother you if we’re around."

Anathema nodded. “We’re scary.”

“Not quite the adjective I’d use.” Aziraphale looked overwhelmed, but tempted. From the nervous hands, to the darting eyes, to the smallest of blushes. Crowley had that look locked away tight in her box of illicit fantasies.

“Look at that, _adjective_. I told you she was smart,” Crowley said. “She has a doctorate and everything.”

Aziraphale’s attention snapped to Crowley, her blush reached maximum.

Crowley allowed her lips to form the parody of a smile. “Your Aunt Marjorie told _everyone_.”

“Unless the questions are on classical mythology and comparative religion then I’m afraid I won’t be much use. And even then I’m about fifteen years out of date.”

“Aww, you’ll never go out of date.” Crowley said and then wanted to finish melting into a puddle. 

Aziraphale’s eyebrows nearly vanished into her hair line.

“We’ll use the joker on the history round.” Anathema said quickly. “Please, we can’t let the _Young Guns_ win again.”

“Deidre’s team,” Crowley supplied and that did the trick. She could practically taste Aziraphale imagining what it would be like to show everyone her brain still worked. “I’ll pick you up at six,” Crowley added.

“Really dear, I only have to walk across the square.”

“And then in to the pub. Can’t imagine you fancy doing that by yourself.”

“See you at six,” Aziraphale conceded. “I’ll be back for the glasses later.” She paused, bit her lip and looked Crowley straight in the eye. "Nice hat. Very yokel gardener. Get yourself a straw to chew and that outfit will be perfect."

Crowley raised her drink in acknowledgement.

Anathema snorted.

Crowley didn’t take her eyes off Aziraphale’s hips swaying until she was back in the café.

_**1997** _

The first time Aziraphale properly talked to Crowley it was raining. She huddled next to the bin store around the back of the school gym where the roof overhung. Crowley sauntered over with her hood up and, without being asked, Aziraphale had made room for her. 

Of course they’d been in classes together since the start of secondary school but Aziraphale was a hard worker, and middle class and good. So good that the cool girls like Deidre thought she was a bit much, actually. Her love of books and her orthodox religious up bringing had given her more knowledge and opinions than she knew what to do with. Especially when the two couldn't be reconciled in her own mind. Aziraphale quickly learned that it was better to keep her thoughts to herself on these matters and set about, quite successfully, making herself invisible.

In a different story she and Crowley may have found a common ground to stand on and face the bullying together. Crowley, however, was abandoned by her mother and foisted on relatives when she was younger. She was avoided at all costs as though a history of poverty and neglect was catching. 

Aziraphale was not proud of herself for avoiding Crowley, but she had just enough credits with the popular kids, mostly because she could persuaded to do their homework, that they mostly left her alone when they were feeling bored and aggressive. She was too much of a coward to risk her own tenuous place in the pecking order by standing out more than she did already. And Crowley went out of her way to stand out.

No one was watching today though, so Aziraphale made room for Crowley to get out of the rain.

Crowley leaned back in the small space, one sole of her not-school-uniform-approved shoe resting against the bricks, and lit a cigarette.

 _You shouldn’t and you’ll get caught_ , was on the tip of Aziraphale’s brain until Crowley offered her a drag and what she said was, “Oh, please, yes.”

Crowley lifted her eyebrows and did that thing with her mouth that was simultaneously a smile and not a smile. Aziraphale quite wanted to stroke the corners of Crowley’s lips to see if that would set her actual smile free. She was used to these feelings though and it was just another reason why it was a good idea for her to stay away from Crowley. Their fingers brushing over the cigarette was enough to make Aziraphale perspire. She took a quick, grateful puff and handed it back.

“Keep it, I have more.” Crowley’s not smile was verging on sardonic now.

“M’fine.” Aziraphale coughed out smoke.

Crowley inhaled leisurely. “Of course. Don’t want to tarnish that ethereal reputation, angel. What you doing back here anyway?”

Aziraphale huddled further back against the wall, arms around her waist. “Waiting for the rain to stop.”

“Don’t have a coat?”

Neither did Crowley. She lounged there with her blazer over her arm, her tie and collar hanging loose at her throat. A lovely long throat. Heat speckled Aziraphale’s cheeks. It grew worse as she sensed Crowley’s dark honey eyes on her.

“No coat anymore,” Aziraphale muttered.

“What’s the matter? Didn’t Sandalphon get an A on his history homework and took it out on you?”

Aziraphale rolled her eyes. “Of course Sandy got an A on his history homework. He’s my brother so I prioritised him. Plus, I do have standards.” 

“ _Standards_ ,” Crowley mimicked. “Nice to be able to afford those, I bet.”

“I can’t _afford_ to have anything else,” Aziraphale shot back.

Crowley blew smoke into the air, that not smile stretching in to something that little fish probably saw right before they got snapped up. “If I’d realised you were so feisty we could have done this sooner, angel.”

Getting wet on the walk to the bus stop had to be better than the exquisite torture of being in a confined space with Crowley’s sarcasm and perfume. What was it? Earthy, or woody. Something deep and dark with a citrusy tone. Just scrumptious.

“Oh, fuck right, off.” Head down and shoulders up, Aziraphale stomped away.

“What do I have to do to make you do to say fuck again?” Crowley called after her.

Aziraphale turned and flashed Crowley her middle finger. She walked home with Crowley’s delighted laughter ringing in her ears.

The next day the first year who’d left her coat on the bus that morning returned Aziraphale’s parka. She saw Crowley watching. Aziraphale always knew when Crowley watched her and it made her skin heat up and freeze simultaneously.


	4. Aren’t you lonely, don’t you want me?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A drink and a walk home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from Call Me by Imelda May
> 
> Apologies to Deidre Young for making her so bitchy in this.

_The Shepherd’s Crown_ was exactly how Aziraphale remembered it. Dark red carpet and wooden beams. The fire place with the intricately carved mantel still had the thumbscrews and scolds bridal resting innocuously on it. Those and the woodcuts of ducking stools eroded the friendly family atmosphere, but the tourists needed reminding why they had chosen to spend their money here rather than at _The King’s Head_ the next village over. 

Newt and Anathema had bagged a table and got the drinks in. Aziraphale was grateful that she and Crowley didn’t have to do the casual wander back from the bar while surreptitiously looking for a place to sit. Everyone still stared of course, and Deidre made a point of coming over and air kissing and _how nice it is to see you out and about again_ , like Aziraphale was an invalid rather than the survivor of a marriage break down. Where Aziraphale was unfailingly polite and so wonderfully passive aggressive that people barely noticed it anymore, Crowley had one Hell of a glare. It was the way she used those glasses and tilted her head. No one could curl their lips like Crowley.

Deidre still dared to ask if Aziraphale had heard from Gabriel at all. She scuttled back to her table to report that Aziraphale’s response was, _talking to each other rather negates the fact that we are taking a break, don’t you think?_

Crowley’s expression at that response had made Aziraphale’s heart leap. It was so light she could still feel it bumping against her ribs and reached for her pint to hide her smile. Oh, dear, it’d been a very long time since she’d drunk pints and this beer was dark and malty. It was delicious. Aziraphale bit down on her ‘mmm’ of delight. She’d better make it last and ignore the chips Newt was sharing round.

They didn’t win the quiz, but they did beat the _Young Guns_ which made Anathema very happy. She dragged Newt, who had got all the answers for the popular culture round, home to celebrate leaving an air of embarrassment in their wake.

“Young people,” Crowley drained her glass. “You want another?”

“Oh, I mustn’t.”

“Says who? I’m not counting.”

The Gabriel still lurking in the back of Aziraphale’s head very much was. He was on two, and that was despite the fact Azirphale switched to halves in an effort to make them last longer. However, two pints in any form meant that Aziraphale was just tipsy enough to tell the Gabriel in her Head to fuck right off, thank you very much, and mean it. She held up her glass. “Yes, please.”

The _Young Guns_ glanced over as Crowley headed for the bar. Aziraphale picked at the remaining chips in the bottom of the bowl to give her hands something to do. She’d avoided them all night, but desperate times and all that. The _Young Guns_ looked away without a fight which left Aziraphale with the taste of vinegar and guilt coating her tongue.

Crowley drummed her fingers on the bar. Bad time for this. Now the quiz was over everyone was trying to get in before last orders. Her phone beeped, and she scrolled to her messages to pass the time. It was from Duke (real name Hastur la Vista, so Crowley could see why he wanted a different moniker).

_Major client came in this afternoon and asked where the fit red head with the fuck me heels had gone. We all still miss you, baby._

Yeah, right. She should block him. Crowley's therapist said she should block him. When the days were too long though her feet itched and her head turned to the horizon. The mind snakes hissed, _what's next?_ Crowley wasn’t sure.

Back at the table Aziraphale was shredding a napkin. What next indeed? Crowley deleted Hastur's message before she did something foolish like ask how he was doing.

"It's nice you're looking out for her." Deidre had used her smile and small figure to insinuate herself at the bar by Crowley's elbow. 

"Well,” Crowley dragged the word out obnoxiously, “Anathema's young. Mother abroad. She needs a guiding hand don't you think?" 

Deidre refused to be baited. "I asked Aziraphale out tonight myself, you know? Poor thing didn't feel up to it. You must be a good influence."

"Imagine that!"

"Can I presume you don't have ulterior motives?"

"Ulterior motives? She's a grown up and you aren't her big brother."

"No, but can I presume he knows you’re both out together?" 

Crowley shrugged. “As I said, Aziraphale’s a grown up.” So was Crowley. She would not be intimidated by Deidre Young provoking bad memories. Crowley gripped the end of the bar before her hand could go to her glasses.

Damn it. Now she really needed another drink. She needed another drink badly. Except Aziraphale was already a bit glassy-eyed. Alcohol might shut the mind snakes up, but it would also lower inhibitions and, from experience, lead to regrettable decisions. They were already balancing on a knife edge and if one of them fell the other would be pulled down too. Crowley was not going to be the one to fuck this up. 

She got served, finally, and slid back onto the seat opposite Aziraphale. Crowley carefully put down a pint of beer and two tall glasses of soda and lime. 

“Sorry, change of plan. I’m starting to feel a bit wobbly. Got you one of each. Wasn't sure what you'd want."

Aziraphale gave her a look that was half relief, but also contained something that was just a little bit too shrewd. 

It made Crowley wish she’d put vodka in the soda and lime in front of her. What had Aziraphale heard?

“Quite alright.” Aziraphale sipped her own drink. “That’s good actually. Refreshing.”

“Here’s to the middle ground then. Fourth out of seven teams isn’t so bad.”

Aziraphale picked up her glass. “Bottoms up.”

Crowley laughed as they clinked glasses. “There’s an idea.” 

She was rewarded by Aziraphale looking demurely away and being flustered enough to ask, “So how long have you been back?” The words tripped over each other in her haste to get them out.

“About a year and a half, I think.” Crowley picked at the edge of a coaster. She could do this. Have a civilised, sober conversation with Aziraphale. It’d be nice. Like it used to be although without all the hiding and before the fucking.

Nice. And not at all awkward.

Aziraphale cupped her glass. “I never thought you’d come back here.”

“Could say the same about you.” _Fair’s fair, angel._

“I didn’t have a choice.” Aziraphale sat up straight with indignation.

“There’s always choices.” Crowley had to believe that. If she chose her life that gave her some autonomy. She may not have chosen well all the time, she could admit that, but she had chosen.

Aziraphale twisted her glass a quarter turn to the left, then back. “I couldn’t stand the thought of throwing myself on Sandalphon’s mercy, and mother…well, we’d have never made it through the first day. I just wanted to feel safe for a bit. Aunt Marjorie has always made me feel safe.”

“There you go then.” Crowley rolled a ripped up piece of coaster between her thumb and forefinger. “If I’m honest, I thought what better way to say fuck you to everyone than arriving back here with my Louis Viton bags and Jimmy Choo’s.”

“You did not!”

“I did too!” Crowley tried to copy Aziraphale’s delighted outrage, but to her ears just sounded shrill.

Aziraphale shook her head as she tried to hold back her laugh. “From what I’ve seen so far you really chose the wrong profession to showcase them. Gardening in Jimmy Choos? Honestly!"

“I didn’t say it was a perfect plan.”

“To imperfect plans then.” Aziraphale raised her glass.

“Imperfect plans.”

The air outside was just starting to grow chill and Aziraphale wrapped her arms around her waist.

“No coat again,” Crowley tutted. Her own hands were shoved into the back pockets of a pair of tight leather trousers. 

Aziraphale thought she must have needed talcum powder to get them on and was wondering what it would take to get them off. She shivered. “Such a long time ago.”

“Eons. _Millennia_.”

“We’re not _that_ old.”

“Nah, just feels like it sometimes. Picking veg can be hard on the knees.”

“Well, this is me.” Aziraphale stopped before the small blue door squeezed in between _Madame Tracy’s_ and the occult tat shop next door. She had never thought she’d wish for a longer walk home after a night out. Should she ask Crowley in? Did she want to?

Crowley propped herself on the doorframe. “Glad you came out tonight?”

“Yes. Anathema is lovely and Newt is…”

“Odd.”

“And also lovely. Thank you for introducing me to your friends. Really.” Aziraphale leant her shoulder against the other side of the door frame. She was mirroring Crowley, barely forty inches apart.

“It was nothing.” Crowley shifted her weight, seeming to stand up without any effort. “Best get home, then.”

“Will you be alright?” Aziraphale asked. 

“I’ve survived so far.”

Aziraphale huffed out a laugh.

“I can walk, it’s not far. About twenty minutes.”

 _You’d know that if you’d come to visit_ was not spoken, but Aziraphale heard it anyway. “Give me your phone.”

“Very forward of you.”

“Give it here, fiend.”

Aziraphale swiped the screen of the slim black box, alcohol allowing her to move past the moment of panic when she realised again how complicated modern phones were. After opening a few unexpected apps she managed to enter her number in Crowley’s contacts before handing it back with a flourish. “Let me know when you’re home safe.”

“What do you thinks going to happen?” Crowley tilted her head. The cool light of the full moon made her skin look like marble, and cast shadows beneath her cheek bones. Beautiful and haunting, and _oh, I should have asked her in._

“Oh, I don’t know.” Aziraphale shrugged. “Bandits. Alien abduction.”

“And you’ll come rescue me, will you? You won’t be passed out on the sofa as soon as you get upstairs?”

“No room up there for a sofa.”

“Bed then, floor, or with your head in the toilet.” Crowley smirked.

“I can hold my liquor, I’ll have you know.”

“Of course. Just have a glass of water. Eat something, ok?”

“Ok.” When was the last time she’d smiled this much?

They both hovered on Aziraphale’s door step for a bit longer.

“Night.” Crowley moved first, sauntering backwards across the square.

“Mind how you go, dear.” Aziraphale got inside and stood with her back to the door while she waited for her nerves to subside. She closed her eyes, which turned out to be a mistake. She made it upstairs before being sick in the toilet. By the time she’d cleaned herself up and had a glass of water and some aspirin her phone beeped.

_You realise you put yourself in my phone as angel, right? C_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, bit of a filler chapter. I promise star gazing and kissing on Sunday.


	5. Your kiss killed me on that night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Promised star gazing and kissing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from Black Tears by Imelda May.
> 
> A trigger warning for underage drinking in this chapter.
> 
> I've also made more exact calculation with my time line, so the about 20 years ago flash back is now officially starting 1997. 
> 
> I'm also a Brit (hopefully that explains some of the spelling). I'm assuming quite a few readers are American, so...  
> Year 11 (secondary school) autumn 1996 to summer 1997 (ages 15 to 16) is 10th grade sophomore year  
> Year 12 (college) autumn 1997 to summer 1998 ( ages 16 to 17) is 11th grade Junior Year  
> Year 13 (college) autumn 1998 to summer 1999 ( ages 17 to 18) is 12th grade Senior year. 

**1997**

The first time Aziraphale and Crowley kissed was on a weekend retreat at the end of Year 11. Out of the structure of school a liminal space had been created where reality could be moulded like play dough. They were out of uniforms and staying in wooden huts somewhere in a National Park. All the normal rules of secondary school society had currently been suspended. That didn’t mean Aziraphale wanted to stay in a dorm full of classmates drinking cheap white wine from a Sprite bottle and playing truth of dare. She took her book and snuck outside to the swing seat at the back of the building. She was just settling back into Shakespeare when the swing tilted dangerously. Aziraphale gripped the back of it, squealing as Crowley tumbled down next to her.

“What you reading?”

“ _Hamlet.”_ Aziraphale tried to sound put out. She tried not to sound how pleased she was to see Crowley.

Crowley tipped her head back, all her limbs flung out wide. “Oh, one of the gloomy ones.”

“You probably think they’re all gloomy.”

“Nah, I like the one with the lovers who don’t realise they’re in love.”

“That could be quite a few of them.”

“You know the one _. I love you with so much of my heart that none is left to protest it_.”

“You’ve read _Much Ado About Nothing_?” Aziraphale sat up straighter.

“Don’t read books. Seen the film though. Don’t look so disapproving. I bring gifts.”

Crowley handed over her lit cigarette. Aziraphale tried not to check for teachers too obviously before she took a puff and handed it back. 

“Just have your own, Jesus, no one’s looking.” Crowley rolled her eyes.

“Language.”

Crowley humphed. “You want to get out of here?”

“And go where? We’re in the middle of precisely nothing but trees.”

Crowley pulled herself vaguely upright and tapped the side of her nose. Then she collected a picnic blanket from the ground and sauntered towards the tree line. Aziraphale settled down and went back to her book. That was the Good thing to do. An over enthusiastic spurt of giggling erupted from inside the hut that grated across the back of her skull. With a sigh she swung her legs to the ground and followed Crowley. 

Crowley didn’t say a word as Aziraphale caught up with her and didn’t bother to shorten her stride. Aziraphale was puffing a bit by the time they reached the top of the slope where the trees thinned out exposing the top of the hill. Crowley flung out the picnic blanket and lay down propped on her elbows.

“Look.” Crowley pointed upwards.

Aziraphale tilted her chin up and gazed at eternity. The silver moon turned the sky purple-black and each star glistened. She dropped down on to the blanked and leaned back next to Crowley.

Crowley handed over a pair of binoculars. She smelled of freshly mown grass and rosemary. The warmth of her fingers made quivers appear low in Aziraphale’s belly.

“Here.” Crowley adjusted Aziraphale’s gaze. “That really bright one is Vega, part of the constellation Lyra. Best to see them at this time of year.”

It was hard to concentrate with Crowley so close. Aziraphale’s brain fell back on information. “Named after Orpheus’ lyre.”

“Well now you’ve ruined my follow up line.”

Aziraphale turned her head, which meant there was only a whisper of air between the tips of their noses. “Sorry.”

Crowley’s mouth twitched. This time it was more smile than not-smile. “What I get for trying to seduce a smart girl with stargazing and Greek Mythology.”

The quiver in Aziraphale’s belly clenched into something warm. She couldn’t keep the blush down. “I’m…”

“Oh, hush. I was just messing.”

Crowley pulled back and Aziraphale felt her absence right down to her toes.

“Here.” Crowley put a hip flask in her hands and settled down on her back, long legs crossed at the ankles and hands on her ribs. “Oh don’t worry. It’s not that sparkling shite they’re drinking inside.”

Aziraphale took a sip. It scorched the insides of her throat. Crowley sat up and thumped her on her back until she’d stopped coughing.

“It was Uncle Luke’s,” Crowley grinned. "He's handsy but harmless.”

Aziraphale took a more cautious sip and passed the hip flask back. “Very good,” she wheezed.

“I only steal the good stuff.”

“I’d expect nothing less of you.” Aziraphale said primly. “Especially if you had seduction on your mind.”

“Don’t flatter yourself, angel. I didn’t plan this. Well I planned the stargazing, but alone. Inviting you is just me being an opportunist.”

The blanket wasn’t that big, and now they were both sat up their shoulders nearly touched. Aziraphale kept her gaze firmly on the group of stars she thought was Lyra. “Tell me about Orpheus then. I’d hate for all your lines to go to waste.”

“Are you mocking me?” Crowley swivelled round to face her. “Just because I don’t read books doesn’t mean I’m not _smart_.”

Aziraphale risked peeking at Crowley in order to judge the extent of her irritation. “I never thought you weren’t smart. Really. You watch things, you’re curious and you ask questions.”

Crowley swallowed. 

“Really,” Aziraphale continued because apparently all it took was two sips of whiskey to turn her into a blathering idiot. “I think you’re one of the smartest girls in the school, you just don’t like people to know it because then they might actually expect you to do well. You’re coasting by, but imagine what you could do if you actually studied properly?”

“Oh, you think you’ve got me all figured out, don’t you?”

Starlight and alcohol, and the close proximity of Crowley, had murdered all Aziraphale’s instincts for self-preservation. She kept talking. “You’re kind too. You are. Honestly, you are one of the cleverest, nicest…”

“I’m not nice!” Crowley grabbed Aziraphale’s upper arms, hard. Her lips drew back from her teeth. "Nice girls do not try and seduce other nice girls.”

Aziraphale snapped her mouth shut. She wasn’t afraid, not now that their noses were almost touching. There were far too many other things to feel, and several thousand lifetimes wouldn’t be enough to catalogue them all. “I won’t tell anyone.”

Crowley’s grip relaxed, but only slightly. “That I’m nice? Or that I seduced you?”

“You haven’t seduced me.” Aziraphale sounded much less sure of that then she would have liked.

“No?” Crowley quirked an eyebrow.

They were still nose to nose. Barely any space to cross at all, certainly nothing like the vastness of the sky above them. It still felt like stars colliding when their mouths slotted together. Aziraphale burned up from the inside out as Crowley’s fingers brushed her neck. Her lips parted as she chased the taste of smoke and whiskey on Crowley's tongue. Crowley called her angel between breaths and it wasn’t mocking or cruel but full of affection.

A door slammed. Voices lifted up from the huts below.

“I’m sorry.” Aziraphale pulled away, breathless and afraid.

“No. Nonono. Don’t be sorry unless you’re going to run.” Crowley reached out.

“So very sorry.” Aziraphale ran. 

Crowley handed Azirphale her abandoned copy of _Hamlet_ the next day and stalked off before she could say thank you. They were headed out on a long hike and it was far too warm. Aziraphale tried to be good and keep her place in the column but as the day wore on she slowly drifted further and further back because, honestly, she would rather appreciate nature by reading about it. Crowley’s tight jeans weren’t really conducive to strenuous activity and had already relegated her to ambling along at the rear.

Aziraphale offered up a sip from her water bottle.

Crowley ignored the peace offering until Aziraphale made her admit that bringing a hip flask of whiskey as her only source of liquid refreshment was not the best idea. They traded whiskey and water in silence until Aziraphale was brave enough to say. “I am sorry.”

“What for?” Crowley snapped.

“Running away.”

“But not the kiss.”

It was a statement of fact. Aziraphale couldn’t bring herself to lie about it. “No, not that. It was just overwhelming.”

“I’m that good?” It shouldn’t be possible for a voice to smirk, but Crowley’s managed it.

“I think you know you are.”

“It’s fine.” A pause. “We can still be friends.”

“Friends? Are we friends?” It had genuinely never occurred to Aziraphale that Crowley would want that, or that she would want that. Aziraphale’s plan had always been to keep her head down and her mouth shut, and then run as far as she could from her family.

“Dunno.” Crowley shrugged. “But I’ve been thinking how you struggle with quantitative analysis.”

“I do not!”

“I’ve seen you get a B minus, angel.”

“Don’t call me that. And B minus is still a pass.” Aziraphale hefted her backpack.

“Oh, and you’d be happy with still a pass, would you? That’d show mummy and daddy you deserve your ticket to university, would it? That single, solitary B minus dragging down all those celestial As.”

“You’re being ridiculous.” Aziraphale pursed her lips.

"How about the challenge of making me reach my full potential then? Through your own good example?" 

“Stop teasing.”

“I'm not. My essay writing is only just passes at the moment. We both want to get out of here. Both have bigger and better things waiting if we can just get the grades. How about we set up a mutually beneficial study group of two? Might as well get something out of this abysmal self-growth shite they’re enforcing on us.” Crowley slewed her eyes sideways. “Well?”

It wasn’t a terrible idea, but it was a dangerous one. Aziraphale had always been good at self-imposed abstinence until that first forbidden taste. It was always easier to forego something when she didn't know what it felt like. Now, she craved Crowley. She craved the way Crowley’s voice got smokier when she teased her and the touch of her lips on Aziraphale's burning skin.

“My family…” She began weakly.

“Don’t want you hanging around with little ol' disreputable me. Yeah, whatever. We’ll keep it secret.”

Aziraphale worried her bottom lip with her teeth. She’d say yes though. Eventually. Why pretend? She was a sinner, in a very specific and serious way and all her best efforts had done nothing to change that. “Alright. Yes. Thank you.”

“Don’t you dare thank me.” Crowley picked up speed, striding off to the front of the column.

Crowley’s anger didn’t last. The truth was neither she nor Aziraphale could stand anyone else on the retreat. That night they found a way out on to the roof where they could smoke without getting caught.

“Just buy your own!” Crowley groused, handing her lit cigarette over and pulling another one from the packet. “Honestly, have you ever smoked a whole one yourself?”

“I don’t really smoke.”

Crowley leaned back, lifting her eyebrows.

Aziraphale, smoke escaping from her lips, held out the lit cigarette. “Just sometimes, you know? To be social.”

“Who are _you_ social with?”

“Well, you. At the moment.”

“How lucky for me and my stash of ciggies.”

The door directly below banged open. Mr Fry the biology teacher and Miss Owens the school assistant came out on to the veranda below to share a cigarette of their own. Crowley and Aziraphale shifted away from the ledge. They could hear the adults talking, and that was how they found out that if Aziraphale was an angel, the teachers had taken to covertly calling Crowley ‘demon.’

Aziraphale glanced warily at Crowley’s face. Her lips twisted for a moment and then she said. “I suppose I did put a live frog in Fry’s desk drawer in year nine.”

“Ignore them. Idiots.” Aziraphale tutted.

“Nah, I don’t hate it. Besides, looking forward to you thwarting me.” She grinned, all harsh lines and incisors.

“Challenge accepted.” Aziraphale leaned her shoulder against Crowley’s. She could, after all, hope that a demon could continue to nurture a fondness for an angel, despite her foibles. She was certain that an angel, over exposed to the harsh brightness of faith, could yearn for something more accepting and dark.

On reflection she didn’t hate it either. They weren’t opposites so much as complimentary. 

When the retreat was over they agreed to meet up at _Madame Tracy’s_ where they could sit in the bow window and see who was coming before they were seen themselves. The table there was big enough and the cloth long enough that slender Crowley could slip out of sight before they were caught.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shout out to biology Teacher Ben Fry and Sally Owens from Alice Hoffman's book Practical Magic. The angel/demon bit in this scene was adapted from her description of the Owens sisters as night and day.


	6. Thought I was strong, oh how I was wrong

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More kissing. Eventually

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from How Bad Can a Good Girl Be by Imelda May.
> 
> Misuse of historical witches chapter.

Crowley had Aziraphale’s phone number and it was a burning itch she wouldn’t allow herself to scratch. _Don’t be needy_ , she whispered to herself, _don’t be weird_. The snakes in her mind didn’t listen. They hissed and slithered and tempted her to action.

Crowley allowed herself a casual, _how’s the head?_ text on the Sunday morning after the quiz night. She had a keyboard smash in response. With hindsight the laughing emoji she sent back probably was a bad idea. A more delicate, sympathetic approach should have been taken. Still, emojis probably couldn’t be shown on Aziraphale’s ancient brick of a mobile anyway. 

She should have shown sympathy though. Encouraged Aziraphale to moan and then offered to take her out for breakfast instead. Crowley argued with herself for so long though that breakfast time became lunch time and then any further correspondence would just have been odd. 

Tadfield was a small place though. Aziraphale would cross her path again eventually.

“You’re pathetic,” Anathema told Crowley, with the astute emotional insight that was to be expected from a witch, really.

“Did I ask for your opinion?” Crowley responded.

It was the farmer’s market again and Anathema had nowhere else to be. She snatched the paperback from Crowley’s fingers.

“At least pretend to read a decent book,” Anathema said. “Plato or Herodotus…”

“That your idea of decent is it?” 

Anathema pulled a face which almost immediately turned into a smile. The smile was directed at a person behind Crowley. Crowley, hope and dread currently at war inside her, twisted in her chair.

“The two of you must be baking out here.” Aziraphale held out her tray of elderflower cordial and scones. “Baking in there too,” she nodded her head in the direction of the café. “Figuratively and literally. Oh, you have rhubarb!”

“Yes, Crowley does.” Anathema took the tray with a _ta very much_ then made herself scarce.

Aziraphale rummaged around in the rhubarb crate. “I was going to make some rhubarb and rosewater muffins for the May Day fete next week.”

“You’re going to that?” Crowley turned more fully, swinging an arm over the back of her deck chair.

“Marjorie thought we’d close the café and have a stall for the day. Will we see you there?”

“I might wander down.” Oh, Crowley was the picture of nonchalance.

Aziraphale’s beam took Crowley’s breath away. She didn’t start to breathe again until Aziraphale had haggled herself a ridiculously low price for the rhubarb (it must be genetic) and gone back to the café.

“That wasn’t so hard, was it?” Anathema muttered. Crowley chucked a radish at her head.

The May Day fete fell on a sunny but thankfully cooler day. The village green behind the church was packed. The trees had lost the fight with the bunting and a megaphone roared about what time the May Pole and Morris dancing would start. The whole place smelled of frying onions and candy floss.

Shadwell had set himself up by the duck pond, or ducking pond as he called it currently, and was holding forth on his current research. It was the closest Crowley could get to _Madame Tracy’s_ stand without obviously lurking so she hid her dislike for both the man and the subject matter and waited. She had good company though. The willow tree by the pond was a perfect place to lounge and she had fond memories of it. A perfect, rose tinted summer of illicit liaisons and stolen booze. Happy days.

Aziraphale came to stand next to Crowley. She didn’t comment on Crowley’s choice of spot, but listened to Shadwell’s talk with a twist to her lips and a frown drawing her pale eyebrows to a point.

“Enjoys his subject a bit too much, I think.” Aziraphale’s voice was thoughtful.

“You should hear the woman from the local coven. She’s the other side of the bouncy castle giving her side of the story.”

“Ah, yes. Her mythology of a persecuted ancient matriarchal religion versus Shadwell’s rational man of the Enlightenment who doesn’t actually believe in witches. The accused themselves lost in the middle somewhere.”

“And what do you think?” Crowley was surprised to find herself genuinely curious.

“Me?” Aziraphale laughed lightly. “Oh, nothing. Gabriel always said I didn’t need to think quite so much. Or talk quite so much. Here.” She handed Crowley a rhubarb muffin. “The combination of both our hard work.”

_Gabriel sounds like a wanker,_ was on the tip of Crowley's tongue, but this was the first time Aziraphale had mentioned her husband and she didn’t want to shut the conversation down. Equally she wanted to tell Aziraphale that she could talk about anything and Crowley would find it fascinating. Aziraphale had always spoken to Crowley like she understood, and miraculously Crowley always had. It was as though Aziraphale’s belief in her could shape the universe immediately around them.

“Nothing for you?” Crowley turned the muffin over in her hands.

“Oh no. I’ve eaten.”

Crowley doubted that, but it was the last coherent thought she had because Aziraphale linked their arms. “I’m going back to the café for more supplies. Come with me?”

Clearly a question, and Crowley thought it’d be safest for everyone if she said no, but she didn’t. It’d be like asking a moth not to fly straight at an electric light.

They ambled through the crowd looking at homemade jam and knitted scarves. The village streets were silent so they slipped through the back door of the café unnoticed. Crowley hovered by the door while Aziraphale pulled trays out of the metal stands. “I need to ice these, can you wait?”

“Nowhere else to be.” Crowley settled her back against the wall to watch Aziraphale work at piping flowers on to cupcakes.

Crowley could just remember what it was like to be the focus of that careful attention. No one had ever kissed Crowley like Aziraphale had. She put her whole being into it until you felt like the only thing in the world worth saving.

“So what _do_ you think?” Crowley asked, unable to stand the exquisite torture of watching Aziraphale look at something other than her.

“About what?” Aziraphale tucked a loose curl back behind her ear. It immediately wiggled free again.

“Witches. What everyone says about the witches, I mean.”

“Oh.” She pushed the rogue curl back again more firmly. “It’s a good story, isn’t it? You clearly see who is good and who is bad. It’s comforting, but…”

She turned away. There was icing on the side of her hand and for a moment it looked like she was going to lick it off. Crowley held her breath, but Aziraphale wiped her hand on a cloth instead.

“I want to know.” Crowley wanted everything. Which was worrying. She just needed to be cool a bit longer and then the ordeal would be over. She could find Anathema at her honey stall and drink Pimms for the rest of the day. She wouldn’t have to think about the way Aziraphale sucked her bottom lip, or how that ridiculous mermaid hair could never stay put.

Aziraphale put the cloth down and came to join Crowley by the door.

“I know it’s beyond arrogant to compare myself to those dead women because I genuinely have no idea what they went through.” Aziraphale’s voice was quite. “I do know what it is like to have so many external stories told about you so loudly that you can no longer believe the one that you try to tell yourself.”

“What’s your story then, angel?”

Aziraphale tilted her head up. Her eyes were wide and questioning. “I don’t know anymore. I guess I’m just making it up as I go along. Do you think that could be alright for now?”

“Sure, whatever you need.” When had Crowley’s throat got so dry?

Aziraphale smiled so softly Crowley’s toes curled. She didn’t dare move as Aziraphale palmed her cheek. Her lips were gentle and cool and tasted of sugar. The kiss was no more than the brush of feathers, delicate and brief. Aziraphale drew back leaving Crowley with a gaping hole in her chest. Crowley was used to not getting what she wanted though and she could deal with it. If it came to that.

“Thank you,” Aziraphale murmured. “For being here. And being so…”

“No.” Crowley grabbed Aziraphale’s arms, spinning her round so her back was against the wall. “No. I’m none of that. I’m selfish. Really, incredibly selfish.”

Aziraphale hadn’t tensed at the sudden manhandling. She was pliant against Crowley’s body, the crown of her head resting back against the wall. Her gaze flicked between Crowley’s lips and her eyes. “Me too.” Aziraphale said.

Crowley had already dipped her head, taking Aziraphale’s mouth with her own and swallowing the words down.

Aziraphale kissed just as Crowley remembered and when her arms wrapped round Crowley’s neck there was nothing else in the world. No past, or future. No Heaven or Hell. Just them and now, and Crowley didn’t have to think about how this would really, really hurt if it all went wrong again.


	7. I'm a fallen angel, don't wanna be somebody's saint

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An interrupted picnic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For every one who enjoys bastard Aziraphale. I had fun with her outrage.
> 
> Title is from Human by Imelda May.

Crowley had spent most of her twenties and thirties being somebody’s dirty little secret or friend with benefits, and sometimes both. Only, and she was very clear on this, when she got something out of it too. That could be a shot at a big client, a promotion. Whatever. As long as she got something to fill the chasm behind her ribs and shut the mind snakes up for a few days.

This was different. This was Aziraphale. 

“I need to get those cakes to Aunt Marjorie,” Aziraphale had whispered. It happened somewhere between Aziraphale’s fingers finding their way under the hem of Crowley’s t-shirt and Crowley’s knees going liquid as a result.

“Sure. Yeah.”

“You need to move, dear.”

“Yeah. Sure.” Crowley shifted back so Aziraphale could lift herself off of the wall. That was as far as they managed. Their gazes clung together for a few moments before Aziraphale exhaled slowly.

“I’ll only be a tick.” Aziraphale went up onto her toes to kiss Crowley’s cheek. Her hand lingered on Crowley’s hip a moment. 

“I’ll just be outside,” Crowley said, more sharply than she intended.

Aziraphale’s brow puckered in to a frown.

“Just outside, give me a shout when the cakes are boxed, ok?”

“Ok.”

Crowley went, quite calmly she thought, outside and then leaned over, hands braced against her knees. She took a few deep breaths. This was different. This was Aziraphale. An Aziraphale who didn’t start at shadows every time they were out in public. They actually went out in public where people could see them now. The eighteen-year-old that Crowley used to be needed a moment though. So much for therapy. Turned out there was some serious crap Crowley still needed to work on. Boundaries, that was what she need.

Then, of course, Aziraphale called out to her and Crowley went running. She went running to help Aziraphale move cupcakes, and as weeks slid along she went running to meet Aziraphale at museums and theatres in town, or for coffee. Their team got quite the reputation at the pub quiz. 

There were not many lunches though. Crowley had made a note of this. Aziraphale ate, but cautiously, cataloguing every bite and savouring it in a silence that suggested it would be her last.

Occasionally they’d link arms when they walked together. Or their fingers would brush when they both reached across a table for the bill. There was no more kissing. Which Crowley told herself was to be expected. Aziraphale had always liked the idea of being bad as long as there was no one to see and tell her brother.

They were friends. And although Anathema was also a friend, that girl was so young sometimes it hurt.

At the end of July Crowley went to _Madame Tracy’s_ for a cup of coffee, as apparently that was what she did when she made it in to the village now. Aziraphale brought it over with a slice of shortbread like a brick and pulled up a chair. Her cheeks were flushed from the kitchen, her hair frizzed around her cheeks. She was all aglow as she presented Crowley with a flyer. A move that was carried out with all the pomp and theatricality of a bad stage magician.

“You’re ridiculous,” Crowley said, but it didn’t dampen Aziraphale’s smile.

“It’s not one of the gloomy ones.” Aziraphale leaned over the table to point at the flyer. “It is, in actual fact, the one with the lovers who don’t realise they’re in love.”

“Quite a few like that, aren’t there?”

“Oh, do say yes.” Aziraphale did that thing with her eyes. The thing with lashes almost fluttering, and pupils dilating and _pleeeaaase_ turning the air around her practically pink.

Crowley was mush. She said yes, despite the fact that it was open air theatre, an amateur production and she would spend the whole of the performance trying not to get bits from the hay bale they would undoubtedly be sitting on stuck in her arse. 

Aziraphale clapped her hands together. “It’ll be splendid.”

It was a nice day for it. Sunny and dry with enough cloud cover that the danger of sunburn didn’t feel so pressing. Crowley, bless her, had chosen the perfect spot for the picnic blanket, and they both sat with their backs against a hay bale with a good view of the courtyard where the stage had been set up.

Aziraphale sipped her prosecco and watched Crowley watching her. She adjusted the hem of her skirt over her knees and was rewarded with a shift of Crowley’s head. God bless the 1950s for allowing women to have busts, and hips. And for petticoats. The petticoat, Aziraphale decided had been worth the extra expense for the fun of it all. She felt light, and sexy, and like a 1950s pinup, although with a skirt that was of practical length and would most definitely be staying under control should the wind choose to pick up.

This gentle, flirty friendship was nice. And after Crowley’s reaction to their kiss Aziraphale had accepted that was what it would be. She knew she’d been pressing her luck expecting another chance, and this _was_ nice. It was. It was just harder to be satisfied when Crowley looked so positively scrumptious herself.

Crowley shifted closer holding out a plate of cucumber sandwiches over the picnic basket. “Are you going to eat any of these?”

Aziraphale leaned towards her, but kept her eyes on the stage. “Shhh, this is the good bit.”

“According to you it’s all good bits.”

“Of course, dear. It’s Shakespeare.”

“You made the picnic, that’s all. Seems strange you aren’t hungry.”

Aziraphale delicately selected a sandwich to keep Crowley quiet. This was a good bit. She’d always enjoyed the fun and intrigue of the masked ball. As Benedick talked about Beatrice knowing and not knowing him, Crowley’s gaze stayed on her. It was not about the dress this time, unfortunately. 

Aziraphale was being ridiculous. She knew what the bloody sandwich would taste like, she’d tried one at home to make sure. She took a bite so she could go back to enjoying the play. The soft give of the bread and the crunch of the cucumber (from Crowley’s garden) against the slick saltiness of the butter was Heaven. Aziraphale’s eyes fluttered closed as she lost herself in the perfection of it. Aziraphale swallowed down her hum of pleasure. They were in public, for goodness sake!

“Good?”

Crowley still watched her. Aziraphale snatched up a napkin and dabbed at her mouth. “Of course. I made it, didn’t I?”

Crowley threw back her head and laughed. Aziraphale let her eyes linger on the long line of her throat, the way the cotton of her black cat suit clung to her chest. She then slipped the rest of the sandwich under the hay bale. A treat for the mice. Aziraphale thought she had got away with it until the interval came around. 

They were on to the strawberries (also Crowley’s) and cream, and Aziraphale’s excited monologue over the directorial choices was halted by Crowley holding up the bowl.

“I’ll be offended if you don’t. I grew them especially.”

“You grew them for profit. I know you sell them to high end restaurants for inflated prices."

“Is it my fault they can’t haggle like you?” Crowley smirked.

“I wasn’t aware I had to pay for these?” Aziraphale tried to sound offended.

Crowley’s smirk became devilish. “Try one.”

“I can’t.” Oh dear. The blush crept over Aziraphale’s neck.

Crowley lifted her eyebrows. “Don’t tell me you’re allergic.”

“I…make noises.” The blush had reached her cheeks.

Crowley’s eyebrows lifted further. “Noises?”

“Of appreciation. They are, urm, lewd. Apparently.” Aziraphale tugged at her skirt again.

Crowley’s smirk blossomed into a smile. “That’s it?”

It _was_ ridiculous when Aziraphale heard it out loud, but the expressions Gabriel made when she’d settled into her arm chair with a pastry followed by the very concerned advice he’d given her the first time they’d gone out to dinner with some potential church donors had been mortifying.

Crowley slid her glasses down to the tip of her nose, all the better to look at Aziraphale. “So, lewd?”

“Hmmhmm.” Aziraphale picked at the grass.

Crowley snorted. “Bet he didn’t like you making noises during sex either.”

“Crowley!”

“Well? Am I right?”

“I am not even…” Aziraphale turned away. She failed to hide her giggle.

Crowley pursued the idea like a hungry snake. “Missionary position once a week. Friday night? Definitely not a Sunday! And I reckon you used the time to check the maid had caught all the cobwebs on the bedroom ceiling.”

Words made no sense to Aziraphale now, and oh God how she wanted to laugh because she’d drunk a bottle of prosecco on an empty stomach and Crowley was not _that_ wrong. She covered her face with he hands, shoulders shaking as she let the laugh out.

“Have a strawberry. No one’s looking, they’re all waiting in line for the portable toilets. Look, I’ll help you.”

Aziraphale lifted her head. Her laugh died in her throat. Crowley had bent her torso over the basket proffering a strawberry between two fingers. Strong, beautifully long fingers. Clean of soil today and with dark red nails that were the same colour as her lips. Aziraphale met Crowley’s eyes. She could back away. Crowley had learned a long time ago exactly how far she could push Aziraphale before she ran. Aziraphale was done running. The satisfaction of calling Crowley’s bluff wouldn’t hurt either.

Crowley’s breath caught as Aziraphale laid her hand on her wrist and dipped her head forward. Crowley’s pupils dilated.

It was too much. Azirphale shut her eyes. The strawberry’s skin was sun warmed on her tongue. It tasted fresh even before her teeth burst the skin. Aziraphale’s lips had brushed the tips of Crowley’s fingers. Salt of skin and sweetness of fruit. _Stay in this moment. This is all you have, remember?_ Aziraphale chewed slowly, savouring. If she actually made a noise she wasn’t aware, too caught up with sensations. Crowley’s pulse kicked against the fingers Aziraphale still had on her wrist.

When Azirapahle opened her eyes Crowley hadn’t moved. She was still bent forward, arm extended over the basket and her fingers holding the strawberry’s green top. They were still so close that Aziraphale felt the puff of Crowley’s breath as she said, “fuck, angel. That was…”

Just this moment. Perfect for a kiss. As soon as Aziraphale had marshalled that thought the moment slipped seamlessly into the next. Present unrelentingly becoming past again.

A shadow fell over them.

“Aziraphale.”

Aziraphale started so hard she nearly screamed. “Sandalphon!”

Crowley pulled back into a lounge, smile morphing to a sneer. Aziraphale got up smoothing down her skirt which was suddenly too wide and colourful. Blue petticoat, indeed. What had she been thinking?

“How lovely to see you.” Aziraphale deliberately put herself between her brother and Crowley. If she had been as much an avenging angel as she wanted her wings would have spread out behind her. Six foot of feathers and fire keeping Crowley safe from his sight.

Sandalphon glanced over her shoulder anyway and Aziraphale shifted defensively.

“Is it lovely to see me? Then I’m surprised you didn’t come to stay with us originally,” Sandalphon said.

“I didn’t want to impose. Aunt Marjorie said she had the flat free, you see?” Aziraphale slipped her arm through her brother’s, turning him firmly round.

“Aunt Marjorie is really not the best person to help you through this time.” Sandalphon allowed himself to be turned, but he glanced back, eyes narrowed before Aziraphale got him to move away from the picnic blanket. Crowley made to get up and Aziraphale waved her back down. 

“We’re worried about you. Gabriel says you’ve not been answering his calls.” Sandalpon used his keep the client calm voice. 

That voice went straight to Aziraphale’s hackles, lifting them to attention. “I have nothing to say to him.”

“He has a lot to say to you though. It sounds like a misunderstanding.”

Oh, honestly. Aziraphale had been moments from strawberry-flavoured Crowley bliss and didn’t have the patience to play this game. “Gabriel was fucking Mikaela on my kitchen counter, Sandy. I don’t think I misunderstood that.” And the shame of it still ate her up, despite the fact Azirphale hadn’t been the one with her knickers round her ankles and making noises like a strangled cat.

“There’s no need to be vulgar, Zira.” Sandalphon’s shoulders moved in to his court room fighting stance. The smile stayed though, insincere verging on patronising.

“No, of course not. Adultery, as with all life’s trials, should be handled with poise and politeness.” This was how going mad must feel. She didn’t even know Sandalphon liked amateur dramatics. Surely he should be watching the RSC at the Barbican instead of prowling around the countryside ruining perfectly wonderful picnics.

Sandalphon sighed at her with a well-worn weariness. “Really, sarcasm now? Gabriel said you assaulted him.”

“I threw a banana at his head!” Aziraphale snapped. “Not the best choice. Not terribly aerodynamic. And did you miss the bit where I told you he was fucking Mikaela on my kitchen counter. I’d made pastry there the night before for his _fucking_ charity fundraiser.”

“You are clearly not being rational.” Sandalphon turned to face her. He had a few inches on Aziraphale in height and was stockier. He used both those things to make her back down.

Aziraphale was angry enough now to not be having any of it. “Would you be rational? I _liked_ that kitchen. It took me weeks to agonise over whether to choose the white marble or the blue granite.”

“Have you been drinking?”

“A bit.” Aziraphale shifted her feet.

“Look, you can be angry…”

“Oh, _thank you_.”

“…but don’t do anything stupid, Zira.” Sandalphon’s eyes flicked back to Crowley.

She was standing up now, all casual elegance in that flimsy cat suit. She had one hip pushed out and a prosecco glass dangled from one hand. The other was on her glasses, tilting them down so she could watch the small domestic playing out. She looked dramatic, and tough, and Aziraphale was sure she was one of the only people who could see the raw curl of vulnerability Crowley nurtured round her heart. Aziraphale would quite happily be damned if she let Crowley get hurt again.

“That woman has never been good for you,” Sandalphon remarked.

White hot rage bloomed in Aziraphale’s chest. Time had done nothing to temper it. “She didn’t exactly bring out the best in you either.”

Sandalphon held up his palms. “I don’t want you to get hurt. I didn’t then either.”

“Stay away from her!” Azirphale jabbed her finger right into the middle of his puffed up chest.

“Alright.” He grabbed Aziraphale’s wrist, tugging her forward to murmur in her ear. “But you should too. Gabriel is coming to England. Oh, don’t panic. It’s not to carry you back home against your will or anything. He’s speaking at conference in London. He’ll make time for you, if you want to talk to him. You should talk to him, Aziraphale. Ten years is a lot to throw away because you’re upset about some silly mistake your husband made with his PA.” He managed to let Aziraphale go and push her back at the same time.

Aziraphale tried not to stumble and stepped further out of reach. She smoothed down the bodice of her dress. “Well, I’ll think about it.”

“Think about what you wear to visit him in as well. You’ve got rather a lot of,” Sandalphon gestures in the general area of her capped sleeves and sweet heart neck line. “Everything on display. Not the message you want to give, is it.”

“Fashion _and_ marital advice from the family lawyer. Lucky me.” The bite had gone from her words and Aziraphale knew she sounded sulky. She put a hand defensively on her ribs.

Sandalphon chucked her beneath the chin. “Just trying to look out for you little sis. Come home, yeah? Mother would love to see you.”

Although not looking like this, obviously, was left unsaid.

Aziraphale thought a very rude word and tried to stalk back to Crowley with what was left of her dignity.


	8. I  pray to God above. It's a sin when we don't love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here be smut and angst.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few things:
> 
> Firstly, in my timeline they both seventeen nearly eighteen in this chapter in case there is any doubt. 
> 
> Secondly, Aziraphale has a hard time towards the end of this chapter with Religion-based homophobia from her brother. Please skip the last paragraph after Crowley leaves if that's a trigger for you.
> 
> Thirdly, a huge, huge thank you to every one who is reading this. Honestly, it's amazing.
> 
> And lastly, I'm now going to completely undermine that by saying this is the first time I've posted smut and I'm kind of nervous. Any feed back on it would be really appreciated (I think there's places it reads like a to do list still). If you don't feel comfortable leaving a public comment but do want to say something you can message me at [Tawnyontumblr](https://tawnyontumblr.tumblr.com//)
> 
> Thank you. *Takes deep breath*
> 
> (chapter title from Black Tears by Imelda May)

_**1998** _

Crowley would not be tempted out of the house in a thunder storm for just anyone, but her, yes, her angel was in trouble so she went. There was the added bonus of not being home alone when Luke rocked back from a night out with the boys in a dangerously familiar state of drunkenness.

Aziraphale’s room was not entirely what Crowley had expected. There were pastels, yes. Rose pinks and duck egg blues. Books, yes. There were a great many books, but they were not arranged neatly on shelves above a meticulously tidy desk where even the pens were laid out in regimented lines. Everything in Aziraphale’s room existed in piles, or stacks. Some of which looked ready to crush Crowley if she breathed too close to them. There was also some antique wooden furniture that was clearly adored, but too big for the smallest room of the three-bed semi that it was crammed inside. 

Crowley was overwhelmed that one person could have collected so much stuff over a mere seventeen years.

“Sorry,” Aziraphale said again. “They’re all away at a regional church meeting. Sandy’s friend from the States is there too so…”

Outside lightning struck and Aziraphale white knuckled the bed sheets until it stopped. They sat at opposite ends of the single bed. As far as they could possibly get from each other. Between them, in an attempt to make things less awkward, were some text books and a tray of homemade brownies.

“You must think I’m very silly.” Aziraphale muttered at her feet. 

“Nah,” said Crowley. “People are afraid of all sorts of things.” She, for example, was afraid of what Luke would do if his morals had been completely drowned in lager. He’d done nothing yet, but as she got older the looks were getting unnerving.

“So, Sandalphon’s friend. Is he the one that gave you the idea of going to America?” Anything to take Aziraphale’s mind of the thunder that was about to growl. When it came Aziraphale's eyes still closed. Her whole body shivered. 

“I’ve never met him. I just don’t want to be here. New country, new story.”

“You could come to London with me.” Crowley’d sounded ok, hadn’t she? Voice not too raw, not too layered with emotion. Be cool, Crowley, just be cool.

Aziraphale’s head jerked up, big sea-scape eyes full of hope and terror in equal measure. “You know I can’t.”

“No, I don’t know that.” Biting her own tongue off would serve no purpose so Crowley turned her scorn on Aziraphale instead.

Aziraphale went back to twisting the bed sheets. “I’m not like you.”

“Queer?” Crowley laughed.

Aziraphale’s expression hardened. “Brave.”

Crowley tipped her head back against the wall. “I’m not brave. I just don’t want you to go to America. I don’t think you want to go either.”

“Yes, I do.” 

Aziraphale was a shit liar. Oh, she tried, but her face couldn’t keep still. Even when she told convincing lies to herself Crowley had noticed how her bottom lip wobbled and her attention flitted anywhere but at the thing that she was avoiding. Crowley had noticed this because the thing in question was normally her.

“Fine. You don’t want to come then you don’t want to come.” And what had Crowley expected, really? She tried not to be angry, she did, but there was a part of her that hadn’t quite given up yet. A part of her that still thought she was worth something. They were running out of time until the end of college and she never could leave well alone. 

As lighting tore open the sky again, Crowley crawled along the bed until she could feel Aziraphale’s quick breath on her face. She could smell the soft angel scent of violets and paper. Aziraphale jumped, pressing back against the wall. Crowley chose to believe that was due to the storm. Aziraphale's gaze flicked towards the sound of thunder and then back to Crowley. 

“If you don’t want to come to London, if you don’t feel a single damn thing then it won’t matter if I do this, will it?” Crowley closed the distance between them very, very, slowly.

Aziraphale pressed herself further back into the wall, but didn’t turn her face away. She tilted her chin up, her lips slightly parted.

Crowley hadn’t expected it to be a proper kiss. She had expected Aziraphale to close her eyes and stiffen as soon as their lips touched, not that she would melt into Crowley’s arms like warm wax.

Crowley hadn’t expected Aziraphale to kiss her back. Or just how urgent that kiss would be. It tasted smooth and dark like chocolate, and Crowley was thoroughly unprepared for it.

Aziraphale’s hands fisted the front of Crowley’s t-shirt pulling Crowley forward until her knees settled either side of Aziraphale’s hips. Crowley braced one of her hands against the wall, the other tangled in Aziraphale’s hair for dear life.

Azirphale released Crowley’s t-shirt and slipped her fingers beneath the hem, coaxing it up over her ribs.

It was good Aziraphale was being so clear about what she wanted because Crowley hadn’t planned beyond rejection and being kicked out in the rain. Crowley obligingly hauled her t-shirt over her head. She was skinny, she knew that, the other kids called her Snake sometimes, but that was nothing in the face of how Aziraphale was looking at her. Wonder and hunger all snarled up.

“I don’t know what I’m doing.” Aziraphale gasped.

“Me neither. We’ll work it out together, yeah?”

“Yes.”

They worked out how to lie down on the bed without breaking their next kiss. Text books thumped to the floor, and Crowley had to extract the tray of brownies from under her hip.

They shared open mouthed and frantic kisses. The storm outside drove them on and Aziraphale gripped Crowley’s hand guiding her higher along the already damp fabric of her knickers.

“Oh, right there.” Aziraphale squirmed “There, there. Wait.”

This is the end, Crowley thought as she was pushed back. Except Aziraphale lifted her hips so she could wiggle out of her knickers. They were tartan. They matched the edge of the bra Crowley could see beneath Aziraphale’s now gaping blouse. Tartan should not be that hot.

“You don’t have to…” Crowley stammered, and for the second time wished she could bite out her tongue.

“Neither do you.” Aziraphale was flushed, stupid cupid’s bow lips kiss bruised and equally stupid mermaid hair in complete disarray. The stupid tartan knickers caught on the edge of the desk chair as she tossed them away.

“I know _I_ don’t have to,” Crowley said.

“But you want…?”

“Oh, fuck yes.” How could she even ask? Stupid, sexy angel.

Aziraphale palmed Crowley’s waist, guiding her back down. Crowley obliged her by pushing Aziraphale’s tweed skirt higher and getting back to work. The soft, breathy gasps Aziraphale made still sounded so refined just made them dirtier. Crowley was lost in them. Everything about Aziraphale was soft though, including her thigh currently pressing up between Crowley’s legs. Crowley rubbed herself against it and let Aziraphale move her fingers where she needed them.

Crowley tugged back slightly. “This’ll make it better. Alright?”

Aziraphale nodded desperately.

Crowley ran a finger along Aziraphale’s labia, collecting the wetness of her. Shameless now. Aziraphale thrust forward as Crowley dipped a finger inside her. She was so slick, and so damn soft everywhere. And those angel eyes. It was the trust in them that was killing Crowley. The love and desire alone would be worth falling for, but that Aziraphale trusted Crowley, of all people, to both take care of her and give her pleasure was mind wrecking.

"Oh, angel. Have you any idea…?" Crowley had always been good with words. She had a smart mouth. When emotions were involved though the words got all tangled in her brain. She couldn't think straight when her heart was in charge. Aziraphale got that about Crowley, like she instinctively got so many other things.

"Show me then, darling," Aziraphale said.

Darling? Oh, fucking hell. Crowley showed her. Slipping her fingers back to Aziraphale’s clitoris, giving her everything she could. Rain and laboured breath swirled together with the silence in the rest of the house. This little pocket of time was theirs. Secret and blissful.

Aziraphale came apart with a sigh that tipped her head back, her spine arched, pushing her breasts up. Crowley devoured that image, hand still pressed between Aziraphale’s legs.

Crowley was so close herself, and she knew her body well. Her hand was down her jeans chasing her own orgasm before Aziraphale’s had worn itself out.

Aziraphale lifted her head, watching Crowley back. 

Never outside her own fevered imagination had Crowley thought she'd see Aziraphale like this. Hair a mess, blouse sliding off her shoulders and hideous skirt tangled around her thighs. Kiss damp mouth telling Crowley that she was beautiful.

That finished Crowley off. She bent forward, free hand pushing down on the bed as she shook to pieces.

The uncaring rain hammered harder against the window. Crowley took a moment to get her body back under control. This would be it. This would be the moment where Aziraphale said it was a mistake. Crowley would have to apologise if Aziraphale so much as looked at her funny with those gorgeous eyes. She already had the words all lined up in her mind and ready to go. 

The bed creaked. Aziraphale's hands cupped Crowley’s face, moving her so their eyes could meet. Crowley looked away, sucking on her lips.

“So very beautiful,” Aziraphale whispered. “Precious, beautiful you.” She kissed Crowley slowly.

It was too easy to let herself sink in all that love. Crowley allowed herself to be curled up under the sheets. They fit together like two spoons in a drawer. Despite her best intentions Crowley drifted into a fug of sleep with Aziraphale stroking her hair. 

The lightning woke Aziraphale. She bolted up terrified of what would follow. In her dreams it was always a portent of something worse to come.

“What?” Crowley rolled over. Her hair was mussed and her face still relaxed. It was so unfair that she looked so good in Aziraphale’s bed.

“Shh.” Aziraphale closed her eyes. Yes, she had heard voices. “Sandalphon’s home.”

She swung a leg over Crowley, reaching for her knickers. 

Crowley grabbed her hips settling her back on the bed. “It’s ok. We were studying, alright? They can’t expect you not to study? Shows you’re serious about uni, right?”

“It’s ten o’clock at night.” Aziraphale’s voice got faster, the pitch higher as panic dug in its claws. 

“We study hard.” Crowley grinned.

Aziraphale slapped her hands over her mouth to stifle a giggle. That was better. How did Crowley always manage to make it better? 

“Seriously. I can climb out the window if you want,” Crowley said.

“Don’t you dare. It’s a long way to fall.”

“No drain pipe?”

“Unfortunately no.”

The voices below moved about and got fainter. The kitchen door shut.

“They’re in the kitchen.” Aziraphale worried her lip. “It’s still raining. We’ll stay here.”

“Won’t be any easier to smuggle me out in the morning.” Crowley sat up, shifting her hands from Aziraphale’s hips to her chin. “Are you ready to have this conversation with your brother?”

Since the kiss under the stars, since before then really, Aziraphale had been doing a great deal of thinking and reading. She had come to the conclusion that, realistically, God was probably too busy, and potentially self-involved, to care what two consenting adults did with their bodies.

The second, and more worrying thing, was that everything was really all about stories. Those people told, and those they believed. Who exactly told stories was important. Aziraphale wasn’t entirely convinced that the Bible was the word of God, so much as the word of people who had written it down, and then those who had translated it back and forth for a few thousand years. How far could words get from their original meaning in that time?

It was one thing to intellectually know these things. It was quite another to make your heart believe them, especially when your heart still loved God, and your family, and…the girl that it was a sin to sleep with because you were a girl too.

Aziraphale put her hands over Crowley’s. She shook her head. “I’m sorry.”

“Hush.” Crowley’s thumbs brushed at the dampness on Aziraphale’s cheeks. “It’s ok. I’ll go now. And if they catch us, we were studying, ok?”

Aziraphale nodded, not trusting herself to speak.

They nearly made it. Light leaked around the kitchen door and into the dark hallway, the kettle hissed as it boiled. It was Aziraphale’s fault. Crowley was out the door, hood of her rain coat up against the weather and Aziraphale couldn’t bear it. She touched Crowley’s wrist to halt her and pulled an umbrella free from the coat rack. As the umbrella exchanged hands she planted a kiss on Crowley’s cold lips trying to convey everything she couldn’t say.

She pulled back, her hand still on Crowley’s wrist when the kitchen door opened.

“Zira? Did we wake you?”

“Sandy! We were studying.” Aziraphale turned sharply.

“With her?” Sandalphon asked, his eyes cold.

Crowley gave up on subterfuge and stepped back inside and out of the rain.

“She’s very good with figures,” Aziraphale said defensively. 

Sandalphon looked Crowley up and down in a way that made Aziraphale want to slap him. She could just imagine her brother giving his Sid James laugh and saying, _I bet she is._

“This your sister?” The voice was confident and American. Its owner was handsome with the kitchen light giving him a halo. Deidre would have fallen to her knees in rapture.

He fixed Aziraphale with oddly compelling violet eyes and the straightest, whitest smile money could buy. 

He was altogether too glossy for their beige and brown hallway. 

“Hi, Gabriel.” Sandalphon gestured the other boy forward.

“I need to go.” Crowley recoiled, edging back towards the door. Her own velvet darkness momentarily dimmed. 

“Need a lift?” Gabriel asked.

“Nah, I’m fine. Later Aziraphale.” It was nearly a question. Crowley’s eyes held hers a moment too long.

“I’ll see you later.” Aziraphale answered the unspoken question firmly, all potential wobbles in her voice and further tears kept firmly at bay.

Gabriel headed back to the kitchen. “I’ll make Aziraphale a cuppa then shall I? See Sandy, learning the lingo already.”

Sandalphon gave Aziraphale a-this-is-not-over-look, and followed his friend. Aziraphale watched Crowley close the garden gate, half tempted to run after her. Instead she waved, made herself smile. It was too dark to see Crowley's face, but she did raise a hand before jogging off down the street. 

It was not over. Back in her room Aziraphale rescued her text books from the floor, and the brownies from down the side of the bed. Smears of chocolate needed to be wiped off the wall, but the bed sheets seemed relatively clean. Except for the residue of sex. Aziraphale flopped face down on to the pillow, inhaling the entwined scents of musk and Crowley. She would need to strip the sheets.

The guilt was still more for her family than God. Although what had happened tonight felt like no more of a sin than the soft-focused fantasies she’d been pleasuring herself to since she’d been old enough, and curious enough to work out what the bits between her legs were for.

It wasn’t a sin to be what she was. Just to keep acting on it.

She had most definitely acted on it again tonight. Unrepentant, that was her. She was quite sure she would act on it again, if Crowley gave her the chance. It wasn't just Crowley's hands and lips and what they could do. It was the smile that bought equal parts fear and hope to her golden eyes. It was the way she could laugh with the whole of herself. 

Breath caught in Aziraphale’s throat, and she would have been quite content to cry herself in to a sleep of self-loathing and heart break, except it wasn’t over.

Sandalphon knocked on the door. “Can I come in, Zira?”

“Hang on!” She wiped her eyes, fluffed the twin head dents out of the pillow and shook out the duvet.

Sandalphon was already opening the door. “You were studying?”

“Yes.” She crossed her legs on the bed, forcing Sandalphon to move a pile of university applications so he could sit on the desk chair.

“With her?” Sandalphon said.

“She has a name.”

“And she’s good with figures.”

“Yes.” Aziraphale picked at the duvet.

The silence unwound around them.

Sandalphon shifted, crossed his legs. “Did you like Gabriel?”

The sudden change of focus gave Aziraphale whiplash. Much like Gabriel himself. He’d made her feel both flattered and flustered. She’d been unsteady and wittering under his scrutiny. A silly, frivolous version of herself and yet she’d not been able to step away from the blazing light of his attention. 

“Aziraphale, if you’re serious about America, Gabriel is at Washington too. He’s said he’ll keep an eye on you.” Sandalphon smiled.

Coldness spread from Aziraphale’s heart and down her spine. So, America wouldn’t be far enough after all. “I don’t need keeping an eye on,” she snapped.

Sandalphon sat on the bed next to her. He slung a heavy arm around Aziraphale’s shoulders.

“Don’t you?”

Aziraphale clenched her teeth and tried to will her flush into non-existence.

“It’s ok, sis, we’re all sinners, remember? We can still repent though, can’t we? And I’m here to help you do that if you need to, ok?”

“We were studying, Sandy.” It felt easy to lie, even if she couldn’t look at his face. Even if each word was a weight on her tongue.

“Ok. I’ll believe you this time, Zira.”

"Good night, Sandy," Aziraphale said pointedly. 

Yes, she could always repent. She had tried, hadn't she? A confused thirteen year old trying to understand what was so wrong about just being herself. In the end she just couldn't do God the discourtesy of lying. If Aziraphale couldn't mean her repentance then it was just another story, wasn't it? 

As soon as Sandalphon had gone, Aziraphale face planted back on to her pillow and finished crying.


	9. You got my love-stained heart on the floor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fluff and yearning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from Sixth Sense by Imelda May

Bother Sandalphon and his stupid picnic ruining compulsions.

Aziraphale was already well on her way to declaring Sunday mornings no go areas for her own mental and emotional health. The fact that this particular one followed her theatre trip with Crowley made her positively loathe it. 

Honestly, just when she’d felt strong enough to actually try for what she wanted her past had to appear in all its overbearing, interfering glory and reduce her to a spineless, teenage wreck again. Sandalphon had left Aziraphale self-conscious and jittery. Crowley, love her, had been wonderful about the whole thing, but her jaw had tensed with hurt as Aziraphale had drawn further into herself.

Aziraphale had been happy, that was the thing. Happy just to have a friend who knew her and accepted her. She’d almost put to bed the cautious fantasies about a thatched roofed cottage with a vegetable garden on two sides. She’d almost stopped riding up to _Eden Falls Farm_ on Aunt Marjorie’s old bike to peer down the track and flirt with the idea of maybe going in. Maybe just asking Crowley if she did want more or if there could be more between them again.

Then there had been the picnic, and Crowley had been so beautiful and responsive and, bother Sandalphon.

Aziraphale was never brave enough, that was the trouble. Or fast enough, and now it would all have to come to an end. Plus, if the amount of emails Aziraphale had this morning was any indication, Sandalphon had tattle-taled to Gabriel as well. They were both tag teaming an assault on her sanity with phrases like,

 _You can’t run forever, Call your husband, Stop being stupid_ and memorably _What God has joined together, let no man put asunder._

Aziraphale had responded to that one, _I am not a man, Gabriel_. Then she’d dragged the duvet back over her head and imagined she could hear his arteries popping on the other side of the Atlantic.

Eventually Aziraphale crawled out of bed and took a long shower. She dug out her nicest pair of new underwear (blue satin and lace) to put on under her kitchen clothes. She needed a self-esteem boost in order to believe that today would be survivable. 

By lunch time Aziraphale had burned her wrist on the grill and dropped an order of salad. She took a few minutes in the staff bathroom to splash water on her face. When her phone beeped again she nearly flushed it down the toilet. 

It wasn't Gabriel. _Just checking you're OK? You are OK, right? C_

Aziraphale started typing then got stuck in a cycle of type, delete, type delete. If she replied now she was in danger of using too much punctuation. Goodness how long had she been hiding in here? She pulled herself together and went back to the kitchen. She made it another twenty minutes before strawberry milkshake went all over the floor. 

At three in the afternoon service was tailing off and Aunt Marjorie made Aziraphale sit down at one of the empty café tables. There was a pot of tea between them. Above it, Marjorie’s round face creased in a concerned smile.

Aziraphale just knew she was in trouble.

“Come on, love. You've been off your game all day.” Marjorie poured out the tea. Chamomile and honey. Oh dear.

“Just tired, that's all.” Aziraphale’s own smile felt brittle.

“Late night last night was it?” Marjorie’s voice hovered somewhere between casual and suggestive.

“No! Goodness. Of course not.” Aziraphale hid behind her teacup.

Marjorie sat back, carefully pencilled eyebrows lifting. “Why was that then? I've never known a person agonise so much over packing a picnic. Choose the wrong tipple to go with it did you?”

Aziraphale sighed. “Sandalphon was there.”

“Ah. Ungentlemanly was he?”

“A bit. In a very surface level gentlemanly way.” Aziraphale would not cry. She was a grown woman and there were still customers in. Not many, but still. Aunt Marjorie was a warm hug on a cold day though. She was the only person Aziraphale knew who had managed to slip the Fell family net. It had taken five years of persistently travelling to foreign parts in an orange camper van, and then getting married to Shadwell in Vegas. Aziraphale tried not to dwell on how things might have been different if she’d been brave enough to trust Aunt Marjorie when she was a teenager.

“Sandy never did cope well when everyone's opinions didn't align with his.” Marjorie topped up the tea cups.

“I don't want Crowley to get hurt.” Aziraphale jumped when her phone buzzed again. She flipped it over.

_Just tell me you’re ok. C_

Aziraphale slammed it back down.

Marjorie placed her hand over Aziraphale’s where it still rested on her phone. “Looks to me like she's getting hurt already.”

“I want to do the right thing.” The problem with that was there rarely was a right thing. It was all conjecture and learned behaviour and making a bloody good guess.

“For who?” Aunt Marjorie stroked Aziraphale’s knuckles.

Aziraphale stared at their hands. It was complicated, wasn’t it? Or was that just how she’d made it all those years ago?

It was not about God, not anymore. Aziraphale decided quite a while ago that she could have a relationship with God that could sit outside the structure of her family’s church. Very much an it’s-not-you-it’s-them-and-about-a-thousand-years-of-bullshit kind of conversation was had in which Aziraphale explained her thoughts and decided she’d focus on living her life without becoming too ensnarled in what might happen afterwards. Aziraphale took the fact that God didn’t smite her on the spot as an agreement. No, this was about Sandalphon and what he thought narrow minded self-righteousness entitled him to do.

“Newt and I'll tidy up. Off you go.” Marjorie stood up decisively.

“Where?” Azirpahle asked.

“That's up to you.” Marjorie kissed Aziraphale’s cheek and took the cups back to the kitchen.

Aziraphale went out the back door of the café. Just seeing the bins made her badly want a cigarette. She hadn’t craved one like this for a decade. It was being back in Tadfield. It made her hungry for so many things she thought she'd given up. 

She’d best go up to the flat, snuggle up with a hot chocolate and soft pyjamas to read... What? Novels made her own life feel caught in sepia. Non-fiction just made her guilty that there were no articles or books out there with her name on. What number had Gabriel just published? Eight or nine?

Marjorie’s old bike was locked up by the bins. Aziraphale wrestled off the tarpaulin and pushed it under the cover of the bin store. The day was still light and hot, but there was a distant storm promised in in the heavy air and on the tang of ozone. 

Aziraphale could do the ride up to _Eden Falls_ in her dreams. Had done it in her dreams many times. Going up there now wouldn't promise anything to anyone. She wouldn't have to turn into the rutted drive and let the downward slope carry her to Crowley's door. She could ride straight past, loop round the village and be back in no time. The ride would clear her head. It would be good exercise.

Her body had started to demand exercise. In the shower she had discovered muscles beneath the softness of her thighs. Her lungs and heart were stronger too. They wanted Aziraphale to get on the bike. She would focus on that craving and not the one for nicotine (and not the one for Crowley). Taking the bike out would not promise anything. Aziraphale would just take each moment at a time. She’d push the bike onto the street, get on to it, peddle and see where the road went. 

Strawberries had been ruined for Crowley. It didn’t help that she had to spend all morning picking the bloody things. She was going to take some of them down to the café, but wasn’t sure she’d be welcome. After the first text to Aziraphale went unanswered she took her frustration out on the brambles that had been encroaching their way on to the lawn at the back of the house.

It didn’t help. Crowley’s body was heaving with exertion and still all she could think about was the scent of Aziraphale’s breath and the too red stain of strawberry juice on her lips. 

Crowley went into the kitchen and ran ice cubes down her neck before popping one in her mouth so the biting cold could sit on her tongue, holding the secrets in. 

The mind snakes were going mad. Crowley grabbed her phone. Still nothing. She put it down. Picked it up. Still nothing. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat.

Fuck this. She sent another text. _Just tell me you’re ok. C_

Fuck. That was weird, wasn’t it?

“Happy now?” Crowley asked the mind snakes. She threw her phone in the back of the fridge in the hope she’d forget where it was and stalked back out into the garden. There were some rhododendrons out there that had been looking at her funny. Maybe if she could clear space Anathema would come up here and help plant that herb garden she kept going on about.

At about half past three Crowley had exhausted herself. She was a hot, sweaty mess and she still couldn’t stop thinking about Aziraphale and her stupid blue petticoat and how it would have felt rasping against Crowley’s forearms as she pushed it up. She couldn’t stop thinking about how Aziraphale had pursed her lips when she’d said goodbye last night, or the way she wouldn’t look at Crowley in an effort to hide the sadness in her.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

Crowley kicked off her boots and turned on the garden hose. She held it over her head, letting the cold water soak her right to the bones and turn her skin red.

By the time Crowley turned the hose off she knew she would have to strip before she went into the house, but her teeth chattered and her mind was finally thinking straight. That was until she turned the corner of the house and realised that she was hallucinating as well now.

“Oh Good Lord!” The hallucination went pink. Its eyes slid over Crowley’s bare legs, clinging t-shirt and came to rest on her face.

Oh shit.

Crowley fumbled to put her glasses back on.

Aziraphale looked away. She stood on the front path with one leg still over the seat of the rustiest most ancient bicycle that Crowley has ever seen. Today she was modelling clothing circa 1940s land girl. Her hair escaped from its scarf, and she was bright-eyed and flushed with fresh air and, Crowley could but hope, arousal.

For a moment Crowley was tempted to strip off her soaking t-shirt right there.

“I’m sorry I didn’t answer your texts.” Aziraphale said to her feet. Then she looked back up at Crowley and went pinker.

Crowley scrubbed the back of her hand across her nose. “You could have text me to tell me that.”

“Yes, I, er, suppose I could.”

Honestly, if Aziraphale kept blushing like that she was in danger of going supernova. 

“I just need…” Crowley squelched her way to the front door.

“Yes, oh sorry. Of course.” Aziraphale finished dismounting and wheeled the bike out of the way.

“Come in. Make yourself at home, just give me a five minute head start.” Crowley tried not to rush shutting the door, but as soon as it was firmly closed she screamed into the inside of her elbow. Crowley tugged off her outer clothing. She couldn’t even comprehend the thought of taking her knickers off as well, not with Aziraphale twiddling her thumbs just outside. She bounded up the stairs, trying to outrun the drips, and got straight in the shower. Despite her time under the hose her limbs were still covered in mud and scratches.

Then she had to find something to wear. Despite eighteen months of residency Crowley had never quite got round to unpacking. The fact that the clothes she had chosen to keep when leaving London were all black and red didn’t help her rush to find something to wear that was cool, but not too cool. There was a nervous angel downstairs and no one designs clothes for possible break up situations. It might not even be that. If Crowley had a brother like Sandalphon she’d want to stick her head in the ground for a day to recover as well. 

Eventually dragging clothes out of suitcases and throwing them on the bed revealed a pair of not too creased linen trousers and a v-neck t-shirt. The shades of black weren’t too discordant and it wasn’t like Aziraphale hadn’t come straight from work anyway. There’d been a smear of something that could have once been strawberry milkshake on her blouse. Right over her heart. There had been chocolate sauce on her left ear lobe. Crowley's mind snakes immediately went lust crazy, breaking the onslaught of desire only to hiss: _She came straight up here from work. What does that mean? What's so important she didn't even look in a freaking mirror?_

“I can do this,” Crowley told herself as she put her glasses back on. She almost believed it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading.


	10. So I surrender, can’t take it no more

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So much fluff.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from Sixth Sense by Imelda May

Aziraphale stepped into Crowley’s home with all the terrified caution of a chronically polite person. She unlaced her boots and put them neatly next to the damp patch on the porch rug left by Crowley’s t-shirt and cut offs.

Poor thing. She must have been frozen, and Aziraphale berated herself for saying the most stupid thing possible instead of offering to warm her up. No. No. Getting out of the way so Crowley could warm herself up. That’s what she’d meant.

The pipes upstairs creaked and distant water splashed against tiles. Aziraphale swallowed. The hallway was dark, ending in a narrow staircase. A large room opened up on the left. Larger windows here and a view over the sloping hills beyond the garden fence. A very inhospitable looking sofa dominated the space before the wood burner.

Aziraphale stubbed her toe on a cardboard box. There were quite a few boxes pushed against the wall. And was that a throne under more boxes in the corner? Who had a throne? And who would spend what was probably a great deal of money on a cute, cosy cottage with beams and roses growing over the door only to fill it with sleek minimalist furniture, the majority of which was still bubble wrapped?

Aziraphale backed away. The kitchen was on the other side of the hallway and looked a great deal more lived in. At least, most of the boxes on the kitchen island had been opened. It was cooler in here which was good because Aziraphale still felt capable melting the flagstones. The pipes stopped grumbling. Thinking about Crowley getting out of the shower was worse than thinking about Crowley in the shower. Aziraphale opened the fridge (thin, black, matt) with the half formed thought of sticking her head in it. She was greeted by half a block of cheese, Crowley’s mobile phone (how odd), two bottles of white wine and three punnets of strawberries.

Well, she didn’t mind if she did. She’d developed rather a taste for them.

“Angel?”

“Hmm?”

Crowley lounged in the doorway, pink skinned and fluffy haired. Her eyes widened.

Aziraphale was well and truly caught with her lips wrapped round the strawberry. She might as well finish it. “They’re very good,” she mumbled, mouth half full. “I was thinking Eton Mess Cheesecake.”

Crowley continued to lounge with intent. “I’m open to negotiations, but I should offer you a drink first.”

“Tea would be lovely. Erm, why is your phone in the fridge?”

Crowley went very still. Her laugh edged close to hysteria. “Oh you know. Cold calls. I meant a proper drink. It’s gone midday and I bet you want to know what happened to all that left over rhubarb.”

That probably wasn’t a good idea. Aziraphale’s brain was not in the mood for good ideas. Not with a shower-fresh and possibly braless Crowley watching her like a hungry snake. “I do now.” Aziraphale smiled. “Oh, cold calls! Very good.”

Crowley smiled tightly and stalked towards Aziraphale on bare feet. Aziraphale shifted along the counter so Crowley could reach up and bring down an old vodka bottle full of a pale pink liquid.

“This is Lady Crowley’s Patented Rhubarb Gin.”

“Lady?”

“Don’t worry, I’ll share it with the plebs. Glasses in the box under the kitchen island. We can adjourn to the veranda.”

The veranda was a square of cracked paving stones by the back door. An old kitchen table stood in the middle next to the impressive puddle left by the hose. Either side of the table were two deck chairs that Aziraphale recognised from the farmer’s market. They didn’t match, so she took the yellow and green one which she knew to be Anathema’s. It creaked ominously as Aziraphale sat down. The view was good though. The scenery around here had inspired poets, artists and travel agents. The view of Crowley stretching her legs out and arms back above her head was something to treasure as well. Aziraphale gulped her gin and coughed.

“So, you are alright, then?” Crowley sipped her own drink more carefully.

“Yes. Sandalphon said his bit, but Gabriel is going to be in London in November. I thought I’d go down and see him.”

“You thought?” Crowley’s voice was all edges.

“We have things to discuss.” Aziraphale said defensively.

Crowley slithered further down into her chair. “It’s not my business, but if you say it’s complicated I will cut you off.”

Aziraphale clutched her tumbler to her chest. “Then you get no Eton Mess Cheesecake.”

“Haven’t agreed to sell you any strawberries yet.” Crowley peered at Aziraphale over lowered glasses. “Wanna haggle, angel?” She managed to make it sound debauched.

Aziraphale giggled. “No. I just don’t want to talk about Gabriel, or my family. Or the fact that I am nearly forty and with no idea what I’m doing.”

“No one has any idea what they’re doing. Not really. It’s all just habits. Your habits have been broken so you’re bound to feel a bit wobbly until you make some new ones.”

“It’s choosing what those new ones will be though, isn’t it? Urgh. I’m too sober for this.” Aziraphale gamely knocked back the gin. It burned all the way down. “This is terrible.”

“Why do you think there’s so much of it left? Can’t even make a decent cocktail with it.” Crowley leaned over to top up her glass. “Stay. For dinner. Can’t let you ride that wreck of a velocipede home if you’re squiffy, can I?”

“Squiffy? If you’ll have me.” Aziraphale was feeling pleasantly buzzy. She let the pause drag just a bit longer than needed. “For dinner. I very much plan to leave squiffy in the rear view mirror.”

It became apparent within five minutes of returning to the kitchen that Crowley had no idea what they were going to cook. That, Aziraphale was assured, was a normal state of affairs. 

“I just use whatever still needs eating.” Crowley pulled a basket out of a cupboard and started sorting vegetables. “Get me that pan out of that box, would you?”

“You said you’d been here a year and a half?” Aziraphale rummaged through utensils until she found a pan of a respectable size.

“About that. Yes.”

“Well, most people would have unpacked by now.”

“Keeping my options open, is all.”

“Oh.” Well then, that made everything quite clear. Crowley _had_ just taken the furniture from her London flat and dumped it in the cottage. If she wasn’t planning to stay then that made sense, didn’t it?

With some complicated mental gymnastics, Aziraphale convinced herself the fluttering in her stomach was not disappointment.

Dinner turned out to be vegetable chilli. They made it together and it did nothing to quell Aziraphale’s domestic fantasies. Neither did taking it out on to the veranda to eat while the sun dipped below the lip of the Downs. Aziraphale let herself “hmm” in pleasure at the first bite, and the second. All of them, actually. Crowley didn’t say a word, but she smiled down at her own bowl. They mixed the gin with soda water and sliced strawberries. This made it marginally less terrible.

“I need to go,” Aziraphale said, although her body refused to get up.

“Stay. Storm coming, I can smell it” Crowley waved her protestations away and managed to get out of the deck chair in one fluid, upwards motion. “I’ll bring the bike round and put it in the garage. Bentley could do with the company.”

“Crowley! Do you have a man locked in your garage?” Aziraphale got up too. It took her a while to find her balance before she followed Crowley back to the front of the house.

“What if I did? Don’t worry, he’s in no state to take advantage of this old girl.” Crowley already had the bike and was wheeling it over the stone path to the garage tucked away in a thicket of ivy.

Inside the garage was tidier than the house. Gardening equipment was stored neatly on hooks and shelves, and the floor was meticulously clean. What could be seen of it. Most of the space was dominated by a car that was as sleek and black as most of Crowley’s other possessions.

“Couldn’t resist,” Crowley said. “I honestly have no idea what I’m doing, but I think I’ve worked out what the problem is.”

She went on to explain what she thought the problem with the car’s engine was. She lit up from within, obvious pride in her voice. Aziraphale tried to understand, but her concentration kept getting derailed by Crowley’s hands moving, and what they would look like slicked with oil and sliding up Aziraphale’s thighs, lifting her on to the car’s bonnet.

She made the right noises. And asked some coherent questions judging by the way Crowley’s excitement dialled up a few notches, but Aziraphale was still an absolute disaster by the time they got back inside. She barely held it together through the washing up. Just a little suspension of disbelief and she would be living one of her fluffier dreams. 

They made coffee in a mutually silent agreement that more alcohol at this point would not be a good thing. Aziraphale still had half a glass of gin left so she took it into the living room, just in case she needed to fortify herself before bed. The sofa was as uncomfortable as it looked, but Crowley managed to sprawl spinelessly on her end. There was tension in her limbs though. It started at the place Aziraphale’s naked toes accidently brushed up against her thigh. Aziraphale tried to take up less space.

“Thank you, for letting me stay.”

“Don’t thank me. It’s what I wanted too.”

The first drops of rain hit the window.

“You were right.” Aziraphale said. The air outside had shifted, released and relaxed.

“Been a long time coming.” Crowley’s head had dropped back. The muscles in her long neck jumped as she swallowed.

“Gabriel cheated on me with his personal assistant. I’m going to ask for a divorce. Not sure how I’m going to pay for it, but if he’s the one in the wrong I’ll probably get some compensation.” Aziraphale bit her lip.

Crowley didn’t move for what felt like a whole minute. Then said: “If he wants one too he might just pay for it.”

“Maybe.” Aziraphale picked up her gin again. “I don’t think he was ever that happy with me really. I was disappointing. And boring, apparently. Especially in bed.”

“Well, if you will spend all your time counting cobwebs.” A smile snaked across Crowley’s lips.

Aziraphale gulped her drink. “Quite. With the benefit of hindsight I’ve come to realise he wasn’t exactly inspiring either. And, shall I tell you something?”

Crowley lifted her head, her glasses fixed straight on Aziraphale. “Oh, please do.”

Well, she was committed now, wasn’t she? “On the occasions when I did try to inspire him he was more worried about getting whipped cream on the bedroom carpet than me.”

Crowley snorted. “What a douche. I’d lick whipped cream of you all day, angel.”

“Thank you, dear.” Aziraphale was pleased her voice was so level while her mind dissolved. “So, erm, what about you?”

“What about me?” Crowley arched an eyebrow.

“Any experiences of the whipped cream or counting cobwebs variety?”

Crowley shifted so she was sat facing Azirphale, legs crossed and one arm resting on the back of the sofa. “Never been with anyone long enough to get to the counting cobwebs stage.”

“Oh?” Aziraphale hated that she wanted to know. Was desperate to know.

“Life was so fast in London. The next deal, the next promotion, the next fuck. I came out here to try and slow down.”

The next fuck. Is that what Aziraphale would be? Could she be satisfied with that? Who was she fooling? Aziraphale knew she would take whatever Crowley was comfortable giving and rejoice.

Aziraphale put down her glass. The rain was falling harder now, battering the glass. Tension was building up again. Aziraphale’s skin prickled. “Did it work? Coming here to slow down?”

“Yeah, a bit. Yeah.”

“Hard to let the old habits go though, isn’t it?” Aziraphale reached out, running her fingers down the shaved side of Crowley’s head. She dared to trace the lines of the snake tattoo above the bar of Crowley’s glasses and felt the scar tissue beneath the ink.

“Hmm.” Crowley leaned into her touch. “You want me to take them off?”

Did she? Aziraphale had never really seen the scars healed. She nodded. Yes. They’d been as much her fault as anyone’s.

Crowley pulled back and unhooked her glasses, discarding them on the nearby coffee table. Her eyes met Aziraphale’s. Aziraphale was glad of the gin in her veins. Not because the scars were ugly, not that Crowley could ever be ugly, but it meant that Aziraphale was calm. The scars were like small silver dots under Crowley’s eye, some with trails like comments.

“Like stars.” Aziraphale ran her thumb over them.

Crowley laughed. “Trust you to make it sound beautiful.”

Aziraphale’s gaze lifted. Crowley’s eyes were just the same. “You’re beautiful.”

Crowley turned her head away and her breath shuddered a bit before she looked back at Aziraphale.

“You still scared of thunder storms, angel?”

“Terrified.”

They were kissing before the first lightning struck.


	11. Come adore me, but know I'm gonna fall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Absolute smut *author runs and hides*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As per chapter summary, if that is not your thing you can skip this and you will miss no relevant plot information.
> 
> If you do want to read I'm still new to this and would appreciate a comment on what works/doesn't work. As always if you don't feel comfortable doing that publicly I'm also at [Tawnyontumblr](https://tawnyontumblr.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Chapter title is Human by Imelda May. 
> 
> Thank you all for reading.

This was happening. Aziraphale was kissing Crowley with the same careful attention that she'd used in the café's kitchen. This was better though because there was nowhere else to be. Just the two of them wrapped in one endless kiss that got deeper and hotter as Aziraphale patiently worked her fingers through Crowley’s hair, over her face and down her neck. 

Crowley was powerless. Complete goo as they stretched out on her sofa, legs entangled so Crowley could press herself against Aziraphale's thigh. Aziraphale tucked a hand behind Crowley's knee pulling them tighter together. Her other hand palmed Crowley's breast, pushing it up so she could suck on the flesh exposed by the neck of Crowley's t-shirt. 

Crowley arched, the flash of pain sending tingles straight down to her clit. She grasped at Aziraphale’s shoulders and then set to work pulling those never ending curls out of whatever crazy knot they had been coaxed in to that morning.

Aziraphale’s mouth moved to Crowley’s belly, her tongue traced circles around her navel and her fingers dipped below the waistband of her trousers. She lifted her hips to help Aziraphale strip them off. Crowley allowed herself exactly one moments regret that she’d only bothered with her boring black cotton knickers. Anything else would have been presumptuous, wouldn't it? Didn't matter. Didn't stop Aziraphale looking at Crowley like she was a particularly ripe strawberry did it? 

“You’re stunning. Do your legs even end?” Aziraphale sat back on her knees. She caressed Crowley’s instep as though she couldn't stand not touching her. 

"Come find out." Crowley scrambled up. She dug her fingers back into Aziraphale's hair, drawing her back into another kiss, open mouthed and breathless. This was still happening. Crowley unhooked the straps of Aziraphale’s dungarees and wrestled her out of her blouse without being told to stop. Beneath it she discovered the most enticing concoction of powder blue satin trimmed with champagne coloured lace. Honestly, no other colour would do justice to the frivolity of it.

“Someone came prepared.” Crowley couldn't stop staring. 

Aziraphale's blush really did go everywhere. “I forgot I had these on, I just... "

“Hush." Crowley smoothed down the lace where it lay against Aziraphale's breasts. "I like it. Matching set?"

Aziraphale twisted so she could undo the buttons on the side of her trousers. She flipped back the material to reveal the edge of what Crowley fervently hoped to be the most ridiculously sexy pair of French knickers she would ever see. Crowley slid her hand beneath Aziraphale's waistband so she could squeeze the curve of her arse. Smooth satin over the give of soft skin. The tickle of the lace. Perfect, just like the way Aziraphale gasped.

"You forgot you had these on? Just forgot? Like underwear this provocative is an everyday occurrence?" 

"You're babbling." Aziraphale dragged the pad of her thumb along Crowley's bottom lip.

Crowley flicked her tongue out to taste Aziraphale's skin.

"I thought today would be difficult." Aziraphale’s attention lingered on Crowley's mouth. "I needed something to make me feel good." 

Crowley trailed her finger tips up Aziraphale's side and hooked them under one of the bra straps. She coaxed it down Aziraphale's plump arm. “I can be something. I mean, I can make you feel good, angel.”

Aziraphale wiggled closer. "You do, darling." 

More kissing. Very much more kissing was needed before Crowley could deal with just how gorgeous Aziraphale was like this, and how she was ever going to cope being this damn lucky. Her hands fumbled with the back of Aziraphale's bra.

“Unhooks, hmm, front.” 

Crowley pulled away, her heart thumping. She was a teenager again. All snarled desire and hope, and mad, mad want. "Do it for me.”

Aziraphale worried a bottom lip.

“You don’t…” Crowley began.

When Aziraphale looked up at her resolve had darkened her eyes. She had always been a complete ditherer until she made up her mind. When she did make up her mind though there were no half measures. Aziraphale undid the bra hooks so slowly Crowley was near ready to beg. Worth the wait though. Completely. 

Crowley pulled her own t-shirt over her head with much less finesse, but now they were skin to skin and there could be more kissing everywhere. There was no way Crowley would leave an inch of Aziraphale' unexplored. She dipped her fingers in Aziraphale's half empty gin glass. It wasn't quite whipped cream, but still a good start.

Aziraphale’s eyebrows lifted, but her mouth curled in an expression that was pure mischief.

Crowley flicked the drops of gin on to Aziraphale's chest and set about licking them off, chasing rivulets down to her belly and back up again. When Crowley used her teeth to graze a nipple Azirphale’s breath caught and her hips canted forwards against Crowley’s knee. Her nails dug into Crowley’s thighs. Crowley was wound up so tight she could hardly breathe. When she reached between her legs, just to take the edge off her need, Aziraphale grabbed her wrist. She brought Crowley’s fingers to her mouth and sucked the last of the gin from them. 

“I’d like you naked now. Very much." Crowley's voice was raw. She was one giant, quivering nerve ending. 

Aziraphale smiled with barely there smugness and shimmied off the sofa and out of her dungaree trousers. The quick movement caused her curves to undulate in a way that made Crowley want to squeeze them, or maybe bite. 

Aziraphale slapped her hand away. "Not naked yet."

Crowley collapsed back on the sofa. "Well, come on then."

Aziraphale tutted. "Don't rush me." She stood before Crowley with her thumbs hooked in the top of her knickers, which were as ridiculous and sexy as Crowley had hoped, and smirked. Cheek of her. Turned out Ms-I-think-I'm-boring-in-bed could, given the right encouragement, be an absolute harlot. 

"You’re a shameless exhibitionist." Crowley was very much up for being the right encouragement. 

“For you, dear. I wouldn’t do it if you didn’t like it.”

“Don’t blame me for your kinks.”

Aziraphale's smirk deepened. She edged her knickers down and bent forwards. Gravity was now Crowley’s new best friend. It did very interesting things to the shape of breasts and thighs.

“Touch yourself for me."

“Speaking of kinks.” Aziraphale straightened up, pushing her hair out of her face. She reminded Crowley of a fertility goddess caught bathing. All lush curves and creamy skin, and not giving a damn that she _had_ been caught at all.

Crowley pressed her thighs tight together. “I want to see you come touching yourself. Just look at you. I bet you’re magnificent.”

“You can, promise.” Aziraphale sunk to her knees. “There’s some things I’d like to do first, if you don't mind?"

Like Crowley had the ability to say no to anything right now. She was ready to make a quip about that because she was still cool. Not a liquid mess. No. Not. Then Aziraphale was spreading Crowley's knees and removing her own underwhelming knickers. 

Crowley did absolutely not squeal as Aziraphale tugged her hips to the edge of the sofa so she could hook one of Crowley’s legs over her shoulder. This was not going to be rushed either. Damn it, Aziraphale actually inhaled before she ducked her head and licked Crowley from perineum to clit. Crowley’s head knocked back against the sofa. She fisted the cushions with one hand, the other sinking in to Aziraphale’s curls. She’d never felt this wanton before, or this pampered come to that. How had she forgotten that Aziraphale could be an absolute fucking tease when the mood took her? Crowley pushed her hips further off the sofa, chasing the finger stroking her entrance. 

“You can go faster. If you like."

“I know. Don’t rush me, darling.”

There was a maddening lilt in Aziraphale's voice. Half school mistress and half brothel madam. 

"Oh, I bet you're loving this," Crowley gasped. 

"And you're not?" Aziraphale pouted as she dipped that teasing finger inside Crowley. Then drew it out. 

"You're killing me."

"Always so dramatic." Aziraphale lowered her head again. 

How long was Crowley going to be left here? She had two hands fisting Aziraphale’s hair now, and when she tugged it with frustration Aziraphale hummed her approval straight onto Crowley’s clit and holy fuck, her hips thrust upwards and: “angel, angel, please.”

Aziraphale laughed and shifted her weight, parting her legs.

“You promised you’d let me watch," Crowley near whined. 

“I will. Just, you taste so good."

“You fucking hedonist.” The mere idea that Aziraphale was as wound up as she was and deliberately keeping them both on the edge of this blissful insanity... “Enough, I just…argh.”

Crowley got herself on to the floor, on hand snaking around Aziraphale’s waist and other one between her own legs. "Come for me. With me. Now.”

Aziraphale was already working on it. Her breath short and sharp. Little exhaled moans that fuelled Crowley’s own desire. Aziraphale dug her fingers into Crowley’s hip and moved closer so their chests brushed together. 

"Say it for me, angel."

Aziraphale blinked desire clouded eyes. "Wha...?" 

Crowley grinned. "You know what I want."

Understanding dawned. Aziraphale failed not to giggle. "Fuck."

"Aww. Like you mean it."

But even soaked in laughter there was still something about Aziraphale's polite, refined voice swearing that made Crowley's muscles clench. She squeezed Aziraphale's breast, dragging a thumb nail over her nipple. 

"Fuck," Aziraphale obliged. Then with intent sucked Crowley's bottom lip into her mouth. "Fuck," she breathed, "Crowley. Fuck. Please."

Crowley was going to lose it. She couldn’t help it, she needed something to hang on to as her pleasure smashed through her. Their foreheads knocked together and Aziraphale's whole body shuddered as her orgasm took her. 

Crowley leaned against her. As soon as she didn’t feel so limp she planned to push Aziraphale down on the rug and taste her. See how many more orgasms she had to give, but first cuddling was nice. Aziraphale's whispered praise was nice. There was a blanket around here somewhere. She hauled it off the arm of the sofa and wrapped it round them both. Yes, this was nice. This was happening. And they were adults now, weren’t they? It would all work out. Crowley held Aziraphale closer. It was nice.


	12. I got kicked around  and broken down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lots of angst

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Final flashback to the 90s and a difficult one.  
> Posting warnings for more religion based homophobia and some physical violence (that happens off screen). Aziraphale is forcibly outed to her family too.
> 
> Chapter title is from The Girl I Used To Be by Imelda May.

_**1999** _

The willow tree by the duck pond was old. Its branches curved down until the trailing leaves kissed the water. The dragon hide roots leapt in and out of the ground creating just enough space for two girls to lie down side by side facing each other, or one on top of the other, and be sheltered from the spring breeze.

Crowley didn't mind Aziraphale pinning her down on her back, or Aziraphale's hand leisurely exploring her waist. Crowley liked the weight of her and the way Aziraphale would whisper how good she felt. Who'd have imagined the angel would be such a sensualist? Such a bloody good kisser too. Crowley swore that when Aziraphale kissed her the rest of the world dropped out of existence, only reasserting itself when they came up for air. 

"Don't stop yet." Crowley ran her nails over Aziraphale's scalp. 

Aziraphale propped herself on one elbow, pursing her kiss swollen lips.

"What?" Crowley wound her fingers tighter in Aziraphale's curls. As long as she was holding on to Aziraphale whatever happened next would be ok.

" _IgotanofferfromKing’s_." Aziraphale’s words tumbled over each other in her rush to get them out.

"Sorry?"

"King’s College. In London. It was quite a late application with no additional financial aid, but I got the letter this morning and I'm thinking about it."

"Going to London?" Crowley knew she sounded stupid. This was unprecedented though. Her skin had grown too tight and her heart was floating.

Aziraphale nodded, biting down on her smile. 

"With me?" 

Aziraphale nodded. Crowley dragged her in to a kiss because there weren't enough words for this. Aziraphale pressed Crowley back to the ground kissing her back like their future depended on it. Like a promise. Oh, shit, they may actually have a future.

"I need to go soon," Aziraphale whispered against Crowley’s lips. "Dinner time."

"The world won't end if you're late for dinner, angel."

"But that's just it, my dear. I am an angel. Can't not do what I'm told." Aziraphale sat up and began tucking her shirt in.

"Thought you didn’t like being called that.” Crowley teased Aziraphale’s shirt back out of her waistband.

“Don’t mind when it’s you.” Her eyes darted away to look at the ducks.

Crowley smiled against Aziraphale’s shoulder before releasing her. She fell back on the ground, hands thrown above her head. "Abandon me then."

"I'll see you tomorrow." Aziraphale dropped a kiss on to the tip of Crowley's nose. "At lunch. We can get brioche. The chocolate kind.” 

“Of course, the chocolate kind.”

Aziraphale smiled, all sunlight and rainbows, and climbed over the tree root and back to reality. Crowley stayed in their dream a bit longer. Aziraphale in London. No families. No baggage. She tried to pull back the hope threatening to burst her ribs, but honestly, even the fact that Aziraphale was thinking about it was worth the grin she could feel distorting her face.

Aziraphale needn’t have rushed. She slid through the front door with minutes to spare only to be told that Sandalphon wasn’t home yet and could she come stir the gravy.

Sandalphon was just late enough that mum was fretting over the roast going dry. Aziraphale raised a disapproving eyebrow at him. He didn’t meet her eyes and slunk off to wash up. Something that he took his time over to the extent that mum started fretting that the vegetables would go cold.

The meal was tense and silent. The roast _was_ slightly dry and the vegetables nearly cold. Aziraphale escaped to her room under the premise of studying.

She sifted through the papers on her desk trying to locate the letter from King’s. Reading it again would help her think. Washington was a better offer, but King’s would be with Crowley. 

The floor creaked behind her. “We need to talk.”

Sandalphon positioned himself by the door, arms folded. He looked worried about something which meant that he was probably angry about something as well. Aziraphale knew that worry made her brother feel vulnerable. He didn’t like feeling vulnerable.

“Are you ok?” She asked.

“Are you?” He held out her King’s acceptance letter. It was creased from time wedged in his coat pocket.

“Have you been in my room?” Aziraphale tried to sound calm and just knew she was failing spectacularly. There was a chill deep in her stomach and the world was rapidly shrinking to the size of that letter, and the frown on her brother’s face.

“I thought you were going to Washington. It was a good offer, you said so yourself.”

“Mum has always wanted me closer to home.” Aziraphale made herself meet Sandalphon’s gaze for at least half a second.

He lowered his head, shaking it slowly. “Don't say this is about mum. This is about _her_ , isn’t it? You’re going to throw away your future for _her_.”

“Her?” If Aziraphale couldn’t do calm then nonchalance was so far out of her grasp that it physically hurt. Her voice squeaked.

“That good little angel act won’t wash with me,” Sandalphon said. “I know what you’ve been up to. She admitted as much.”

The cold in Aziraphale’s stomach washed up to her heart. Not that she believed for a moment that Crowley would have said anything. She wouldn’t. Not unless...the furtive way Sandalphon had slunk in before dinner, hands shoved in his pockets and shoulders hunched, hit something deep and primitive inside her. “What have you done?”

“Nothing she didn't deserve.” Sandalphon uncrossed his arms and stepped into the room, angry in his defensiveness.

“If you’ve hurt her…”

“If you’d ended your little _fraternization_ when I told you to, I wouldn’t have had to!”

And that was the truth wasn’t it? Aziraphale thought she’d been so clever, so careful. Thought she’d had it all planned out. Stupid. Stupid.

Aziraphale’s nails dug into her palms. She was going to implode with fear and frustration, and the only bright side would be if she took Sandalphon with her. 

“You’ll thank me later.” Sandalphon spun around.

Tears prickled Aziraphale’s lids. This would not happen. She stomped after him, rushed and fearful, both her opens palms smacked hard into Sandalphon’s back. He staggered forward.

“What the…?”

As Sandalphon turned Aziraphale shoved him again.

“What did you _fucking_ do?” Aziraphale crowded him against the stair bannisters.

“Mum!” Sandalphon yelled. “Aziraphale swore!”

“Spineless tattle-tale!”

“What is going on?” Mum called from the kitchen.

“You’re being an idiot.” Sandalphon grabbed Aziraphale’s wrists as she tried to push him again. “Let me help you.”

“Tell me what you did!”

“Why so you can run kiss it better?”

Aziraphale kicked him in the shin. Sandalphon fought to keep his balance and as they twisted they hit the bannisters again. The crash shuddered through the wood and all the way down to the hall.

Mum opened the kitchen door, she shouted at them but all Aziraphale had space for in her head was trying to hit Sandalphon as hard as she could. He flapped his hands in an effort to block her. 

Sandalphon’s eyes were wide. Skin near white. His eyes flicked away. Then back. “Mum! Aziraphale’s gay!”

Aziraphale stopped yelling. Her stomach plummeted as she backed away. “No, Sandy, please.”

“For your own good, Zira,” Sandalphon said. Then, louder: “Mum! Aziraphale’s gay for that Crowley girl!

The Fell family reconvened around the dining room table. No one was angry. This was made explicitly clear. Although dad’s thunderous face undermined that somewhat. Aziraphale glanced at it and spent the next fifteen minutes staring at her hands. She was a block of ice, empty and unfeeling.

They weren’t angry, just concerned. Disappointed.

Perhaps the headmistress should be called? They could arrange a meeting with Crowley’s family? It was probably all a misunderstanding. Not part of the church were they? If we just explained?

Aziraphale started to beg. She didn’t know how she managed to speak with her frozen lips and icicle tongue, but she also had no idea if Crowley was out to her aunt and uncle. She’d never bothered to find out. Stupid, selfish girl that she was. Aziraphale dug the heel of her hands into her eyes and begged her mum not to make that call.

“Zira’s going to America in September,” Sandalphon said sullenly. He’d been slouched silently next to her, arms crossed again and inspecting the carpet. Both parents had made it very clear that his behaviour had not been acceptable either. Not forcibly outing your sister, that was all for the good, but fighting like they were a pair of children and not nearly out of their teens. That was not the sort of thing to be encouraged, was it? And him the eldest…

Aziraphale frowned at her brother. He folded his arms tighter and shifted uncomfortably.

“No point making a fuss,” Sandalphon said. “ _If_ she’s going away anyway.”

Mum relaxed. “Oh, yes. You did say that Washington was such a good offer.”

“It was,” Aziraphale said. ‘But’ was forming in her mind, shaping her awkward tongue.

Her mum’s beam cut it down. Relief and hope and love, and it hurt so very much. 

“And I’m sure if you just explain to this young lady that you’re not…”

“I am.” Aziraphale whispered. Honestly, what was the point in hiding it now?

Sandalphon gave her an are-you-fucking-stupid-look.

Aziraphale glared back at him. It was an, what-if-I-am-this-is-your-fault glare.

Sandalphon rolled his eyes. 

Dad put both his palms flat on the table as he stood up. He was ready to pass judgement. Aziraphale was going to Washington. The amount of work the whole family had done to get her there left him in no doubt of that. Until then she would be under the strict supervision of one of them at all times. She was not alone. They would help her to get through this. After all, what were families for?

The Fell’s house had one phone in the kitchen. Aziraphale wasn’t going to get to it during the rest of Sunday without being seen. For one wild, mad moment she fantasised about setting fire to Sandalphon’s bedroom to cause a distraction, but she was not truly that angry. She wasn’t entirely sure she felt anything. She sat on her bed where she had kissed Crowley and willed Monday to get a move on.

Her anxiety grew into a bramble thicket when Monday did sluggishly creep over the horizon and Crowley didn’t turn up. She skipped her final class and got home early. She shut the kitchen door and held her breath, phone clutched to her ear with both hands. Her lip trembled as the ring marched on and on.

A click as someone picked up.

“Yeah? What?” said a huskier than normal voice.

Aziraphale collapsed against the wall. “Oh, you’re ok!”

The silence dragged. “Yeah, I guess.”

“I need to see you.”

“I’ll be at school tomorrow. Normal place?”

“Under the willow tree or by the bins?” Aziraphale was dizzy. Head light and dizzy. There was no plan beyond seeing Crowley.

“By the bins. Gotta go.” Crowley hung up.

Crowley ran her fingers along the roughness of the brick wall and rubbed the dust between her fingers. It wasn’t the same brick wall, this one by the bins at the back of the school. The other brick wall had been down in the village, part of the cut through between green and high street. She could still remember how it smelled. Acrid and hot from the sun. Crowley pushed the sunglasses back up her nose. She’d pinched them from Aunt Lily’s dressing table and even the teachers hadn’t asked her to take them off. Aunt Lily and Uncle Luke had been altogether more put out by the trip to A&E and subsequent interviews with representatives of the establishment than Crowley’s habitual pilfering.

“I fell and hit a brick wall,” had been Crowley’s constant refrain through it all. It wasn’t a total lie, after all.

Ridiculous. After Aziraphale had gone she’d dawdled, stopping for a smoke on her way home because she wasn’t in a rush. When she’d heard the footsteps behind her and caught a flash of white hair, her heart had jumped. She’d thought it was Aziraphale again.

This time it was. Aziraphale bustled round the corner of the building, checking over her shoulder. Crowley let out a breath she hadn’t realised she’d been holding. She sucked it back in almost at once as Aziraphale’s eyes raked over her.

The glasses hid some of it, but nothing could be done about the bandage taped to the side of Crowley’s face. There were stitches underneath and a multi-coloured bruise that ached.

“Hi, angel.” Crowley grinned.

Aziraphale’s face crumpled. “Oh God, Oh God. I’m so sorry.”

Oh, shit, this was going to get weird.

“Why? You didn’t hit me.” Crowley leaned back against the wall like it was nothing. It was nothing.

“He hit you?”

Crowley scoffed. “Yeah, but only because I let him.” She’d just misjudged her footing that was all. Plus a slight miscalculation on exactly how bad Sandalphon had wanted to hurt her. Using the term _impotent Neanderthal bastard_ had been a mistake, with hindsight. He probably hadn’t appreciated the reference to evolution.

“Why on Earth would you let him hit you?” Aziraphale was ash white, eyes ready to pop.

“Because that’s how you deal with bullies. He had something to prove. I let him prove it and then he fucked off all satisfied that he’d made his point.” How did Aziraphale not get it? “Don’t be angry. I didn’t tell him anything about you.”

“That’s not why I’m angry. Good Heavens, Crowley, you should tell someone about this.”

Crowley laughed. “Oh, you’re cute. His word against mine, you mean?”

“Ours.” Aziraphale straightened her spine. She was adorable.

“And why exactly did your brother hit Miss Crowley, Miss Fell?” Being sarcastic wasn’t helpful, but it felt good. It shut up the hissing in her head.

“We’ll think of something.” Aziraphale shrunk in on herself, eyes roving over the ground, the sky, the bins. They didn’t fix on Crowley, they slid past her like water off a duck’s back.

Crowley deflated. Bloody hope. It never learned. She pulled out a cigarette and lit it. It didn’t stop her hands shaking. “Not worth it,” she puffed at the clouds. “Not for anything less than the truth, anyway.”

Aziraphale made a noise like a mouse. She bent over, hugging her ribs. Crowley did not stroke her back. Things had changed. Got weird. No point denying it now.

Aziraphale straightened up. “Come to America with me.”

“You know I can’t afford that.” No more thinking about Kings then? Fine. Whatever.

“I'll work something out.”

“You come to London,” Crowley said. “I’ve already got an apprenticeship and flat share sorted. It’ll be far enough away.”

“It’s only an hour on the train.” Aziraphale bit her thumbnail, staring into the distance at an impossible choice of futures.

“Compared to sharing digs with your brother’s bestie.” Crowley’s cigarette was already down to the filter.

“I don’t have a bloody choice. Can’t you see that?” Aziraphale shook.

Crowley wanted to hold her, but didn’t trust herself. She was too angry. “There’s always a bloody choice, angel. Otherwise what’s the point of it all?”

Aziraphale flinched. “Then I'm _choosing_ to going to America.”

“I thought you loved me?” Oh shit. Shitshitshit. Crowley hadn’t meant to say that. Not when she’d practically backed Aziraphale into a corner already. Crowley twisted her mouth up. Too late to swallow the words back down. They wouldn’t get by the giant lump in her throat anyway.

Aziraphale’s lip wobbled. Her eyes filled up. “I do that’s why I’m going.”

“What? You know that’s insane?”

“ _I’m going!_ ”

It was that voice. The stubborn one. Whatever stupid thought was in Aziraphale’s head had already calcified into truth, regardless of whatever ridiculous, flimsy notion had put it there. There was no arguing with that voice. Not without causing serious damage to both of them. 

Crowley was angry and tired, and fuck it.

“Fine.” Crowley flicked her cigarette stub at Aziraphale’s feet.

Aziraphale jumped back, but Crowley still managed to slam her shoulder as she stalked past.

“Have a nice life then,” Crowley yelled as she walked away.

She was proud of herself for not looking back.


	13. And I’m running. And I’m scared

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> emotions run high.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from Black Tears by Imelda May

Crowley woke up with an armful of Aziraphale. Angel hair, turned nearly gold in the early morning sunlight, tickled her cheek. Crowley ran her hand over soft, full curves and Aziraphale wiggled back against her like a cat begging to be petted. Crowley continued to stroke until Aziraphale was near purring.

This was happening. This was a thing that they did now. They wasted mornings in Crowley’s bed, or shared sips of tea in Aziraphale’s flat before she went to start work in the café at whatever ridiculously early hour cake batter demanded.

This was happening. Still, Crowley held her breath sometimes.

Stupid things like Aziraphale’s shoes tucked by hers in the porch. A long, blonde hair stuck to the shower glass. The scent of violets, sugar and paper on Crowley’s pillow. Stupid little things could stop her whole body dead because this was happening. This was real. She needed to remember it while both those things remained true.

Crowley held her breath when Aziraphale kissed her on the cheek during the pub quiz because she knew the name of Queen’s bass player.

“Who doesn’t know that?” Crowley demanded of the rest of the table.

Aziraphale smiled and put her hand over Crowley’s and didn’t pull away when Crowley slid their fingers together. Their hands stayed like that, on the table, in full view of everyone, until it was Aziraphale’s turn to get a round in.

Some people side eyed them. Aziraphale gave no indication that she had noticed. 

Purely for experimentation, Crowley let the mind snakes convince her to follow Aziraphale to the loos when the quiz was over. They made out pressed against the towel dispenser and whenever the floorboards in the hall outside creaked Crowley’s heart quickened with the titillation of getting caught rather than the stomach clenching fear of discovery.

They only stopped kissing when Aziraphale politely pushed her away. “This is lovely, but I really did come in here for another reason.”

This was happening, and if occasionally Aziraphale looked at her phone and pursed her lips then Crowley could be cool about it. There was really no need to be constantly looking over her shoulder at a past that was water under a derelict bridge. Dusted. Moved beyond. Pushing up daisies.

Crowley made room for Aziraphale’s toiletries in the cottage’s antique bathroom, but she still didn’t unpack all of her own.

The months until Aziraphale was due to go to London contracted into weeks. Then days.

Crowley scrolled through her messages from Hastur. She nearly replied to one. It would be a completely valid excuse for her to go to London too. Old friend to see, keep you company, angel. Crowley had it all planned out. She then deleted all Hastur’s messages in one go because having him on standby as a conciliatory fuck if Aziraphale reconciled with her husband was not healthy, no matter what the mind snakes hissed at her at around one in the morning.

The night before Aziraphale was due to catch her train they went out for dinner. It seemed like a good idea at the time, but in reality it was too much of an event. Too much of a marker between before and after.

They had sushi. Crowley tried to keep Aziraphale in the present but both of their minds kept creeping forward to future nightmares. Afterwards they made love in Aziraphale’s bed and it was too polite and a little too earnest. Crowley stared at the ceiling afterwards while the mind snakes slithered about unchecked. She held her breath.

Crowley lay face down on Aziraphale’s bed with her knees bent and her red toe nails waving at the ceiling. She’d purloined Aziraphale’s Argyle sweater and the neck was falling off one shoulder and the bottom riding up to reveal her knickers.

Aziraphale was trying to pack despite the distraction of black lace against pale skin. There weren’t many places Crowley was soft, but where her thigh met the curve of her arse was a place ripe for biting. Aziraphale considered this, weighing it against how much packing still needed to be done.

She’d been considering lots of things lately, like what she could do with butter cream, chocolate ganache and a naked body. Or, since the aborted picnic, teasing Crowley's hungry lips with a strawberry. Both sets of her lips. 

She glanced at the near empty suitcase, then the clock, then back at Crowley.

“I know you’re looking.” Crowley put down her phone and rolled over. She wasn’t wearing her glasses, she rarely did when they were alone together, and seeing her eyes unguarded always sent a thrill of affection right down to Aziraphale’s toes.

“Well you’re quite the show.” Aziraphale tossed another blouse towards the suitcase. She should have finished this off yesterday, but there had always been something less stressful to do.

“You can talk.” Crowley stuck out her lip. “Not fair your wearing _that_ underwear to see your husband in.”

Aziraphale looked down. Under the Chinese robe that she found second hand in Brighton was the same set she’d had on when she’d ridden up to _Eden Falls_ that first time. It simultaneously seemed long enough ago to be a solid, established truth, and also so recent it was a fragile thing that could burst if held to tightly. Dear God, but she was anxious about this weekend. Crowley was watching though so Aziraphale smoothed her hands over her hips. “But he won't see it. It's for my confidence, same as before.”

Crowley huffed. “Principle of the thing.”

Oh, she was being petulant. Aziraphale leaned forward, resting her hands on the bed, then slowly crawled up over Crowley’s legs. “But don’t you like the idea of it being our little secret?” She punctuated every few words with a kiss. Crowley’s knee, her thigh, her collarbone. She finished with Crowley’s mouth. Really took her time over that, enjoying taste and texture. She loved the way that Crowley, who prided herself on being so cool and collected, would begin to unravel when Aziraphale kissed her just right.

“When did you get so filthy?” Crowley breathed.

“Oh, I’ve always been this filthy. You just make me feel safe enough to show it.” Aziraphale smiled.

“Don’t go,” Crowley said quietly.

She didn’t want to. Aziraphale sighed and pulled away to sit on the bed next to Crowley. “I need to.”

“You can talk on the phone. Or skype. Alright, not that, I know your technological limits.”

“It’s just a weekend. I’ll be back before you know it.” She would. Barely fifty hours.

“I know it already.” Crowley rubbed her eyes and then twisted away, fishing for something in her overnight bag. “Here. I got you something. A going away present.”

Aziraphale took the cream leather case phone case. There were angel wings picked out in gold on the back. She opened it up. Her heart fluttered. “I have a phone.”

“But it’s ancient.”

“I don’t know how to set this up.”

“Done. My number is in it. The only one you need. And look, you can get emojis now. And photos.” Crowley had eased the phone out of Aziraphale’s hands. Her thumb scrolled across the screen, opening and closing apps at a giddy pace.

“What will I be taking photos of?” Aziraphale asked innocently.

Crowley leered. “Use your imagination, angel. C’m here, I’ll show you.” She hooked an arm around Aziraphale’s waist, pulling her back on to the bed so she could nuzzle Aziraphale’s neck.

“Stop it, wicked temptress.” Aziraphale glanced warily at the phone screen as Crowley held it out and opened the camera. “I’ll look all flustered.”

Aziraphale saw their faces on the screen, flushed and laughing. Before she could protest again Crowley nibbled her ear and the camera clicked.

“Oh, they’re awful.” Aziraphale leaned over to look.

“Then take it with you and get some better ones.” Crowley closed the phone and handed it back.

“Thank you.” Aziraphale kissed her cheek. “I need to get finished.”

“Get a later train.”

“I can’t. I said I’d meet Sandalphon at Victoria Station.”

“He’s going to be there too?” Crowley’s voice broke slightly.

Aziraphale turned slowly back to the bed a pair of socks twisted in her hands. “Gabriel is his friend. He wants to see him as well.” Aziraphale had mentioned Sandalphon was going to be there, hadn’t she? Honestly, Crowley should have realised he would be if she’d thought about it.

Crowley swung her legs off the bed. “This is bullshit. Let me come with you.”

“No. Absolutely not.” Unthinkable. Beautiful, delicate Crowley exposed to that.

And honestly, a small ugly part of Aziraphale admitted, Crowley staying away would be easier for her too.

“I don’t need protecting from them.” Crowley stood up, taking up as much space as she could. “You have to see what they’re going to do.”

“Well, I don’t need protecting either!”

“No. No, ‘course not. I just think they’ll team up and exploit your vulnerabilities. That’s all.”

“That’s all?” Aziraphale’s stomach twisted. “You don’t trust me.”

Crowley shrugged. Made a noise like “Ngrr.”

“You don’t.” Hurt slid to anger so quickly. 

“Oh come on. You’re so clever. How can someone as clever as you not see how this was always going to end?” Crowley gestured between them wildly.

“This isn’t going to end. What do you think _this_ is to me, Crowley? What do you think _you_ are to me?” Aziraphale’s heart beat too fast. She couldn’t catch it and calm it down. Not with Crowley’s mouth twisted in anger and her eyes wide and afraid.

“I don’t know,” Crowley said desperately, “because we don’t talk about it, do we? Because you are just making it up as you go along.”

Aziraphale stepped back. “I thought we both were. I thought we’d both been hurt and this was just…”

“Experimentation. Novelty. A bit of fun.” Each word was a blade sharpened by time.

Aziraphale pressed her fingers to her temples. Stupid. Stupid. She should have seen this coming. She should have been more careful, but she’d been so wrapped up with how she would handle Gabriel. Obsessed with what she would say and how she could say it in a way that would make him listen. She still couldn’t quite believe in herself when it came to that, but she thought Crowley had at least. Stupid. “Are you having fun, right now?” Aziraphale snapped, furious and lost, with a train to catch in forty minutes.

“You know what? No.” Crowley pulled her trousers on.

“So you’re running away, then?” Aziraphale folded her arms.

“I’m not running. I am sauntering out of this with my pride still in one piece because I am not going to hang around waiting for a Dear John text that says you’re getting back with your husband.” Crowley snatched her bag up.

Aziraphale closed her eyes. Fine, that was what Crowley thought of her. She’d hate to be even more of a disappointment. Very politely and firmly she said: “Alright then. I guess I’ll see you around then. _If_ I come back”

“Sure. Have a nice trip, angel.”

The door slammed. Aziraphale sat down on the corner of the bed and allowed herself exactly five minutes to cry. She had a train to catch and then she’d show everyone just what she was made off. Right now what she was made of felt like broken glass.


	14. Can’t sleep I’m scared to dream

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley tries to recover.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from Call Me by Imelda May
> 
> Have another chapter because when I read fics I enjoy the angst, but I'm also pulling my hair out until the happy stuff comes along again. We are nearly there. Thank you all so much for sticking with me through this.

Crowley made it all the way to her front gate before she realised she was still wearing Aziraphale’s jumper. Too late now. She wasn’t going to take it off at the end of her drive and sure as damnation wasn’t going to take it back.

As soon as Crowley was in her bedroom she threw it in the corner and had the longest, hottest shower she could stand. Crowley had always thought of herself as disposable, ever since she’d been handed over to her aunt and uncle. This was expected. It was not a surprise. She’d been prepared.

It still bloody hurt though.

The more Crowley thought about it, the more it hurt. She couldn’t stop thinking. The mind snakes were dragging up every nuance of Aziraphale’s voice, every minutia of her expression.

But Crowley hadn’t been unreasonable? Had she?

She’d learned early on in her career when to get out of a deal before it all went south.

Crowley leaned her forearms against the tiles so the water rushed down her neck and back. She pressed her forehead to the coolness of the ceramic and tried not to think about the way Aziraphale had said: _you don’t trust me_ with her lip quivering and wide almost wet eyes.

Crowley hadn’t. Didn’t.

Aw, shit. She’d expected the worst of Aziraphale and that was what she had been given, wasn’t it? Her inner eighteen-year-old had been scared and Crowley had tried to protect her and now she was in an almost too hot shower trying to swallow down the tears burning up her throat.

She needed to call Aziraphale. Now. Before she got on that train.

Crowley turned off the water and nearly slipped as she tried to climb out of the tub and grab a towel at the same time. Hell, it was cold out here. She had just wrapped herself up when a shrill buzzing crept round the door.

Crowley leapt for her bedroom. She scrabbled through the pile of discarded clothing for her trousers. Her phone was wedged in the back of the too small pockets. Her wet fingers fumbled for it, each nerve jumping as they slid over the smooth cover.

“Angel?” she gasped, holding the phone to her ear.

“Who have you been talking to, Crowley?”

Oh shit, Hastur. She should have checked the caller ID because this wasn't going to be another push for a hook up judging by the thinly veiled hysteria in his voice. 

With supreme effort Crowley got her heart back under control. “Hi, how are you doing? Me? Oh, I'm great thanks for asking.”

“Stop pissing about. I've had some bossy, black chick in my office asking all sorts of things about our business relationship.”

He was in his office now, she could tell by the echoes as he stomped about.

“We didn't have a relationship, Duke. We fucked occasionally for reasons of mutual benefit. How's your wife, by the way?”

“I don’t want her getting upset about unpleasant rumours.”

 _They aren’t rumours if they’re true_ was on the tip of Crowley’s mind. She had liked Hastur’s wife though, that was the strange thing. Liked her more than she'd liked him sometimes. Even stranger than that was Hastur had liked his wife too. He just also liked sleeping with Crowley. Having a mistress was probably some mad shit that was just on his CEO to do list. 

Crowley took a deep breath. “Look, what on this green earth would I have to gain by wrecking your marriage now? I didn’t even want to wreck your marriage when I was sleeping with you. You weren’t the prize you egotistical wanker, I just wanted to level the playing field so I got the same shot at the things the lads did.”

“Yeah, well. What do you think this angel of yours is going to think when they find out what a slut you are?”

“Slut? Bit harsh, don’t you think? Considering I wasn’t committing adultery _by myself_.”

Crowley held the phone away from her ear as he screamed something incoherent and hung up.

“Yeah, bye Hastur. Nice talking to you again you absolute, total _bastard!_ ” 

Crowley slumped back against the bed. She looked at the pile of clothes by her still damp feet and decided putting them back on was far too much effort. Putting them in the washing basket was also far too much effort.

She needed a drink. All the alcohol was downstairs, currently light years away when her body was as heavy as this. She’d gone to London already determined never to feel anything ever again. She'd decided on doing whatever it took to make enough money to be reliant on no one but herself for anything. She'd done very well, she'd thought. Except now it was dark outside already and she didn't have the will to actually unpack and admit that she was staying in the fantasy escape cottage she'd bought with her ill-gotten gains. The thought of actually having a home, having roots and admitting she cared about something, or someone, was terrifying. 

Crowley shivered. It was a huge effort of will but she pulled Aziraphale’s jumper towards her with her toes, then got it over her head.

The angel scent on it made her feel at once safer and sicker.

She’d moved. That was a start. Ok, deep breath. She unlocked her phone and opened her address book.

Anathema and Angel were sat together, one above the other. Crowley's thumb hovered for a moment. Her brain ping ponged between possible futures. She hit call. 

“Crowley? How spooky. I just had a feeling I should talk to you.”

Crowley exhaled. Now, to remember how mouths worked. “Yeah? Well, big spooky fan me.”

Was that her voice? She sounded like a freshly opened tomb.

“Crowley?”

Crowley swallowed. “I'm not good Anathema.”

Crowley waited while Anathema considered this. Good at considering was Anathema. Never went straight for what’s wrongs or platitudes.

“You at home?”

“Yeah.”

“OK. Newt’s just getting me the keys for Dick Turpin.” This was said in a very pointed way. No doubt Newt was already scurrying to obey. “I'll be there in five. OK?”

“Ok.” Don’t hang up yet. The dark is too quiet. “Anathema? Why is Newt's car called Dick Turpin anyway?”

Her laugh was husky. “Trust me, knowing that won't make you feel any better. Sit tight lovely, I'm on my way.” 

**_2017_ **

Crowley did not leave her London job in a column of hell-fire or burning sulphur. If anything it was a particularly underwhelming exit to anyone but her. It was all Adam Mann's fault, really.

When did CEOs get so young? He had two lawyers with him, probably inherited from Adam Mann Senior now deceased. They were best described as a barracuda in a business suit and the one with a stare like a professional psychopath. Nothing she and Hastur couldn't manage.

They were having fun talking potential companies that Mann might want to approach to discuss mergers. The lazy circles Hastur drew on Crowley's knee with his thumb suggested this was a prelude to the fun he was planning to have later. Whatever. She'd enjoy it to, and any inconvenience didn't matter because she would get the biggest account in the company's recent history. 

Then Adam cornered her as she was returning from the powder room (hotels this swanky did not have toilets.) Crowley had no qualms about colleagues but she didn't sleep with clients. Flirtation was all part of her pitch, but anything else was just awkward to manage. It’d be a delicate matter though shutting down a proposition from a twenty-something with big, brown, serious eyes who was probably just looking for ‘experience’.

“I don’t like your boss.”

Crowley lowered her glasses to properly assess Adam. “Then why did you want to meet us?”

He handed her his card. “I like you.”

Crowley raised her eyebrows.

“Oh, no. Sorry.” The CEO melted instantly into embarrassed young man. Crowley found it quite endearing.

“I mean not that you aren’t, you know…” He waved generally in the direction of her feet. “Look, Dagon and Bea…” he gestured beyond the restaurant’s shiny foliage to where his lawyers were launching a two pronged attack on Hastur’s smarm, “…they don’t like you because they don’t like anyone, but they do respect your work and that’s almost unheard of for them. I want you on this. Not your boss. You or we walk.”

It gave Crowley something to think about. Later in the taxi she sent Hastur home alone. She was under the weather, best just curl up with Netflix and an aspirin. He joked about her getting on and not being able to hold her drink. Sure, whatever your ego needs, Duke.

Crowley put him off for two months. In that time she worked her arse off for Adam Mann until he’d got the deal he wanted to expand his family company. Never once in that time was it suggested that the account be taken away from her.

Crowley realised two things: Hastur now needed her more than she needed him. 

And: she still wanted Hastur because although he was more than capable of making her skin crawl in the board room she also liked the way he wanted her. It was the longest, most stable relationship she had with anyone. This was despite the fact that the idea he might one day decide to leave his wife sent her into a retching panic. 

It was depressing. More than depressing. It was pathetic.

Crowley was exactly where she had always wanted to be in her life. She was financially and romantically independent, and she was absolutely fucking miserable.

That was not the first night she spent sat on the floor in the dark crying until even her bones felt hollow, but it was the one she stared straight in the eyes and allowed herself to understand. 

It still took Crowley a few weeks of denial, alcohol, and sleeping with Hastur again before she broke. Or, rather unbroke. When Hastur had gone out to lunch one Friday she left a very polite resignation/break up note taped to his office door. She cleared her desk and walked out of the office.

She walked back in. 

Eve glanced up from her computer, a familiar look of dislike and terror on her face. Crowley grinned at her from behind the pot plant balanced on top of her box. “Walk this way.”

Eve looked warily at her colleagues and followed Crowley into the hallway. Eve was good at her job. Everyone said so. No one said she would be better if sixty percent of her energy wasn’t taken up banging her head against several glass ceilings constructed of race and gender.

Crowley put down her box and handed over her client book.

“Names, numbers, interests. Names of kids and partners. That sort of thing. Start ringing round. Introduce yourself.” Crowley picked up her box. “I’d start with Adam Mann, but give it an hour. I need to catch a taxi and then send him an email recommending you as my successor.”

Eve frowned as she flipped through the book.

“Thank you?”

“Don’t thank me,” Crowley said. “It’s not exactly a flower garden in there. Still best of luck. Don’t call me for advice, I’ve just quit.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are not enough Dick Turpin shout outs in Good Omens fanfic. It is the funniest joke in the world! (You know, when you're a fifteen year old history geek reading the book for the first time.)


	15. I can’t explain but it hurts like Hell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale stands her ground.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from Should've Been You by Imelda May
> 
> I tried to make the archangels nuanced and three dimensional, just not hard enough. Or at all, really. Sorry about that.

It was all quite civilised to begin with. Still, seeing Gabriel standing in the hotel foyer beneath a banner reading _Revelations Conference 2020_ did not settle Aziraphale’s nerves. It all looked a bit apocalyptic, if she were honest.

Crowley had haunted Aziraphale throughout the train journey to London. Words on the pages of the book she’d brought to read rearranged themselves into versions of _we don’t talk about it_ and _can’t you see._

The worst of it was that Crowley had been right. They hadn’t ever spoken about what they were doing. Aziraphale thought they hadn’t needed to. Hadn’t it been obvious how completely besotted she was? She’d thought if she’d made any bigger heart-eyes at Crowley they’d have never been allowed out in public for fear of scaring the natives.

Aziraphale was still oscillating between anger and self-pity when Gabriel stepped forward to embrace her. She pointedly stepped back, nearly bumping into Sandalphon who was hovering behind her.Her eyes met Gabriel’s for the first time and although his publicity smile didn’t fade his eyes began to recalculate. There wasn’t a break in his salesman patter, of course not, there were people watching. People milling about with conference schedules and welcome bags who were here to buy his books and see him talk.

“Booked us all into this hotel. Saves everyone travel time, easier to talk if they are all in one place,” Gabriel beamed.

“There’s a lot to talk about,” Aziraphale conceded.

Gabriel smiled wider. “Looking forward to it.”

Their fingers brushed as he passed Aziraphale her room key. She tried not to shudder, or think of it as a betrayal of Crowley.

“Dr Flight!”

“Angela, good of you to come.”

Angela was perfect teeth, hair and skin. She glowed at Gabriel. “We’re looking forward to seeing you speak again. Would you mind?” She had his book out, pen ready.

Of course Gabriel didn’t mind. While he signed Angela turned her glow on Aziraphale. “So nice that you’re here. We knew the two of you would make it up.”

“Oh, we’re not…”

Sandalphon applied gentle pressure to Aziraphale’s elbow. Gabriel handed Angela her book back and shepherded Aziraphale toward the lift with a cheery, “you go freshen up before dinner, dear.”

The lift doors shut, cutting Aziraphale off from the foyer. A pale shell-shocked ghost stared back at her from their mirrored surface.

That was not a good start.

The room at least was comfy. There was an inviting looking bath in the en-suite and the bed’s mattress had a nice bounce to it. Aziraphale collapsed into the bed’s pillows and pulled out her new phone. Nothing from Crowley. She held it for a few moments, willing it to ring and wondering whether she was brave enough to call first. Brave enough to admit that perhaps Crowley had been right about both husband and brother conspiring against her.

She’d never been brave.

Aziraphale opened up her photos. She’d got very good at doing that on the train ride. Generally, she was happy in her body until shown a picture of herself. Then she’d be concerned about her nostrils, or the roll of fat that would appear beneath her neck if her chin pointed down. 

None of that bothered her in these pictures. It could be that the angle was just right, or the light was supernaturally perfect, or that Crowley’s lips and nose were smooshed up against her cheek. Aziraphale had never seen herself looking so breathlessly happy. 

Aziraphale put the phone down. No point hiding from it. She loved Crowley, and had managed to hurt her again. She absolutely refused to let herself believe that Crowley had been right not to trust her. Aziraphale would sort this weekend out and then go back to Crowley and make it better. Aziraphale began to pick out her armour for dinner.

Dinner could be best described as a trial by three courses. It was a skirmish though, not the war and Aziraphale adjusted her battle plan for Saturday. Gabriel was the head line act in the evening and forming part of a panel discussion just before lunch. Aziraphale managed to avoid both him and Sandalphon by spending most of her time in her room. 

She was not going to be coerced into playing happy families again, and the best way to do that was to not create opportunities for it to happen. She’d brought books borrowed from Shadwell’s witch hunting stash and spread them all out on the bed with her note book. At dinner, between several verbal scuffles over whether or not Gabriel’s fans should be led to believe they were reconciled when they definitely weren’t, Gabriel had insisted that he would pay for everything. At lunchtime Aziraphale shamelessly ordered room service and put up the _Do Not Disturb_ sign. She made sure the shower was running at full volume when Sandalphon came knocking for her.

After lunch was the time that Gabriel thought he could spare to sort out their little problem, as he was calling it. Aziraphale planned on arriving early, only to be told by a perky young thing in a conference t-shirt that she now needed to go to another place on the next floor up.

Gabriel, Sandalphon and a lady with a very severe face and a big manila folder were already there, settled in arm chairs in the corner of the upstairs lounge. Nice and secluded. They all looked very cosy.

“I didn’t know I needed to bring a lawyer,” Aziraphale said with what spunk she had left after running up a flight of stairs.

“Oh, Uriel isn’t a lawyer,” Gabriel smiled. “Besides, you’ve got Sandy here on your side.” He clapped Sandy on the shoulder. “So, why are we all here, Zira?”

“I presumed it was to discuss our divorce.” She hauled a fourth chair towards their little clique and tucked herself into it. Sitting facing them over the glass table and fruit bowl made it all feel very job interview so Aziraphale straightened her spine and tried to feel confident.

“Ah, shouldn’t presume.” Gabriel drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair. “You see I was presuming you wanted to ask to come back.”

Aziraphale had practised quite a few things to say to that. None of them were needed as Gabriel rattled on: “The brand I’m promoting is all family values, subject of my latest book is all about using scripture to help marriages work in these trying times. Your timing’s not great, if I’m honest.”

Aziraphale tried to match his insincerity with a smile of her own. “I do appreciate that, but you really should have thought of that before you broke the seventh commandment. On our kitchen counter.”

Gabriel held out his palms. “You make a good point, and we can deal with your little snit. It makes me more relatable that we’re having difficulties, after all. We do, however, need a happy ending.”

“Happy for whom? Exactly? Mikaela is happy about this, is she?”

Gabriel nodded with sympathetic understanding. “She knew what the deal was and she’s been a real sport keeping a low profile this week.”

“She’s here?!” Why was Aziraphale surprised? Really?

“Of course she’s here. She’s my PA. Look if you want to labour your point you can have some time, but I want you home by Christmas. Season of good will and all.”

“And Hallmark movies.”

“Getting feisty? Better hide the fruit bowl.”

Sandalphon smiled obligingly. It took a great deal of self-control for Aziraphale not to stick her tongue out at him.

“You want something to sweeten the deal? I’ve still got most of your books,” Gabriel said “We could get you, I dunno, a shop or something. Proper vanity project to keep you occupied and tidy up the house a bit.”

Aziraphale closed her eyes and counted to ten. She folded her hands on her lap and said: “No.”

She opened her eyes just in time to see Sandalphon and Gabriel exchange a look. Despite his flippancy Gabriel hadn’t actually moved the fruit bowl. There was quite an enticing pear within grabbing distance. Aziraphale like pears. They were round and heavier than bananas.

“We can continue this little chat when I have a lawyer who isn’t a total arse.” Aziraphale glared at Sandalphon as she stood up.

“Wait a moment, Zira. You’ll want to hear this.” Sandalphon stood too and touched her wrist.

“I doubt it.” Aziraphale sniffed, but sat back down.

“We hoped it wouldn’t come to this,” Gabriel said. “Uriel is a private investigator.”

Uriel didn’t look at Aziraphale as she handed Gabriel the manila folder. He took his time inspecting the contents and then pushed a blown up copy of a photo towards Aziraphale.

The first thing she saw was Crowley. Longer hair, fewer lines etched around the fuck-off smirk twisting her lips, but still Crowley. Her infinite legs were crossed and she was leaning forward to stub out a cigarette in the ashtray on the table in the foreground. She was looking up at whoever was taking the picture and the smirk was clearly all for them.

The silence in the room was weighted. Azirphale didn’t dare look up as she pulled the photo towards her noticing the other people on the sofa with Crowley, particularly the man who had her perched on his lap, one hand spread possessively over her thigh. Aziraphale wanted to hunt him down and, well, have very strong words with him about appropriate behaviour.

“That’s her former employer,” Uriel said helpfully. “He’s married.”

Aziraphale pushed the photo away and sat back. “And what does this have to do with absolutely anything at all?”

“Quite a party girl in her day,” Gabriel said. “Quite enjoyable company we've been led to believe. And that had a direct impact on her career trajectory. Slept her way straight to the top.”

“I’d be disappointed in her if she’d only slept her way to the middle,” said Aziraphale. “And that doesn’t answer my question.” Did they honestly think she’d give up Crowley because of the stupid things she may have done in her twenties. Aziraphale had been in her twenties when she married Gabriel so was hardly one to judge.

Gabriel pulled out his phone and scrolled through the pictures. When he turned it towards Aziraphale it showed a picture of her and Crowley at their picnic. Crowley was holding the as yet uneaten strawberry. Aziraphale couldn’t look at it, not here. She turned the full weight of her anger and shame at Sandalphon. He had the courtesy not to meet her eyes.

“Talk about breaking the seventh commandment, sweetheart. The pair of you look quite intimate, if I’m honest. What will our congregation think of you?” Gabriel tutted. 

“I couldn’t care less.” Aziraphale was sure she was one giant blush. So many emotions were fighting for prominence she was probably burning up. “As I’ve mentioned already, I do not intend to come back.”

“And what about your lady friend in the dark glasses?” Gabriel asked. “I have quite the media platform. Worth a tidy sum, it is. She, on the other hand is nobody. A friendless, unfortunate woman living on the edge of a village somewhere. We all know how that story ends, don’t we? The thing I’ve always despised about little villages is the gossip. And if anyone asked Sandalphon why you and I were parting ways he'd tell them the truth, or course.”

“Your version of it anyway,” Aziraphale muttered.

“It doesn't have to happen this way, Zira. We want what's best, but you've always been so naive.”

“If you tell me this is for my own good, so help me...”

This time Gabriel did move the fruit bowl. “Honestly, no one here wants to hurt you.”

Crowley wouldn’t care. Not really. She’d laugh at them, and then weather the storm out. That wasn’t the point though. She’d worked hard on her vegetable garden. Harder still to chisel out a place for herself in Tadfield, and Aziraphale had weathered that particular storm when she first moved home. Was still weathering the sly comments, the whispered conversations and the pointed questions. And she was still nominally the ‘good’ one. What would Deidre Young inflate Crowley’s past in to if given the chance?

“I need some time.” Aziraphale hoped she sounded stubborn.

“Three weeks,” Gabriel said. “Then back for Christmas. Although if you could show your face for the rest of the conference I’d appreciate it.”

Aziraphale would appreciate a glass of wine and a bath. She aimed to get herself both those things as soon as possible. 

“Pleasure,” Aziraphale said like each letter was a knife. She left with as much flounce as she could manage. By the time she reached the door of her room she’d deflated. She was tired and washed out. It would be so easy to just crawl back into her old life and return to sleep. The problem with sleeping though was the dreams. Aziraphale had been collecting them the last few months. Tiny ideas that had woven their way into her very fabric.

Fuck this.

She’d been making this all about Crowley. Ok, it kind of was all about Crowley because all the dreams featured her somewhere. It was also about Aziraphale though. She needed to sort herself out first and then everything else could follow.

Aziraphale turned around and left the hotel. The first thing she was going to do was get her hair cut.

It was amazing what a new hair cut could do. Aziraphale had never believed Aunt Marjorie on this point, but it was about more than the way Aziraphale felt lighter as she walked. The young lady who had taken off the length, and some of the weight, and spoken at great length about layers also had a girlfriend. She’d shown Aziraphale pictures. Aziraphale had shown her the one of her and Crowley.

Aziraphale hadn’t lied exactly, but she had shared her dreams in such a way that they could have been mistaken for reality if you were too busy trying to sell someone the right type of hair mousse.

It was all about stories, and over an hour and a half Aziraphale had talked hers into being while her old life was cut away. Her dreams were almost tangible now.

Back at the hotel Aziraphale picked up a conference schedule and headed for the room where Mikaela would be setting up Gabriel’s evening talk. No point pretending that she and Mikaela had ever got on, but it was worth discovering whether she would be as happy with this whole situation as Gabriel thought she would be.

Aziraphale opened the door to the conference room. It was a suitably impressive scale for Gabriel with tiered seating looking down at a podium on a stage. Mikaela was on the stage. She was not alone.

Aziraphale’s first thought was: _Dear God, not again!_

Her second thought was: _At least they both still have their underwear on this time._

Her third, fourth and fifth thoughts were: _They don’t know you’re here, you should say something. Oh, stop dithering. Phone! Phone!_

Aziraphale had got very good at opening the camera app. Her first picture was an accidental shot of her own feet. The second was rather a good one of Gabriel with his tongue down Mikaela’s throat.

Aziraphale shut the door quietly. She then ran straight to her room and began to pack.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m sure I’ve stolen the sleeping her way to the middle joke from somewhere else. Possibly a Carry On film. If anyone recognisies it because I've stolen it from them though please let me know and I'll remove it.


	16. My strong heart wouldn’t break

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale gets back to Tadfield

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Sunday everyone.
> 
> Chapter title is from The Girl I Used To Be by Imelda May

Aziraphale sat on the 4.15 train out of London and methodically worked her way through logging on to Network Rail’s wifi. After a couple of tries she managed to access her email account on her phone. Trial and error got the photo of Gabriel and Mikaela attached to a blank message. Gabriel’s email address was in her notebook. She carefully typed it out, biting her tongue as she did.

What to say?

Aziraphale pondered this until the train started to pull out of the station. She typed _Stalemate_ as the message heading then pressed send.

Gabriel was due to start speaking at the conference at 5.30.

At 4.45 Aziraphale’s phone rang.

She answered, each nerve trying to jump out of her skin. Gabriel started off very reasonably. This soon deteriorated into exasperation. His voice got louder. Aziraphale sent an apologetic look at the smartly dressed young lady sat on the other side of the aisle.

When Gabriel resulted to frustrated name calling, Aziraphale cut him off.

“Gabriel, dear…” She tried again. “Gabriel!”

“What?”

“Gabriel, I really am quite _definitely_ gay and I’d like a divorce now. Thank you.” Azirpahale hung up. She shook all over, but it was a good kind of shaking. Like she had finally worked out how to operate at the right frequency and was now just adjusting. 

Her phone started ringing again. Aziraphale declined the call and dropped the phone in her bag.

She let out a long breath. 

The young lady across the aisle was looking at her. She wore an expression that suggested she was just waiting for the world to do something stupid and prove her right.

“Very sorry about that,” Azirpahale said. “It’s all dealt with now.”

“Nicely done.” The lady smiled. It made her instantly more mischievous. “I don’t normally do this but…” she plucked a card from her bag and handed it over. “Sounds like you may be needing a good lawyer, and I am a very good lawyer. Especially when my client is such a badass.”

“Oh!” Aziraphale scooted along her seat and took the card. “Thank you, Miss…Moonchild?”

“My mum was pretty alternative.”

“Oh, I understand. I’m Aziraphale. My mum was pretty religious.”

They shook hands across the aisle, united in mutual sympathy.

“I look forward to your call then.” Miss Moonchild flashed her pixie smile again and went back to her book.

Aziraphale peeped at her phone. Two missed calls from Gabriel and one from Sandalphon. Still nothing from Crowley. She put the phone away again and got out her notebook. She spent the rest of the journey working on the abstract of an article she was going to write.

The farmer’s market had been replaced with a Christmas market. That essentially meant it was all the same stalls but with more tinsel and mulled wine.

The mulled wine could not be argued with, but generally Crowley and Anathema turned up in black and lurked amidst all the glitz and good cheer with as much disdain as was possible while trying to get people to buy your produce. Anathema’s produce anyway. Vegetables didn’t really like coming out to play in winter and Crowley respected that. Her Goth vibe was currently being ruined by a rainbow scarf Aunt Marjorie had insisted on giving her and a pair of pink gloves Anathema had bought her last Christmas as a joke.

It _was_ cold though and at least she was still wearing her sunglasses. Crowley was bad. She was a bad, scary person sipping mulled wine from a ceramic boot and not wishing Anathema would hurry up and get back to the stall already.

As soon as Anathema arrived, Crowley wanted her to leave again.

“What’s this?” Crowley cautiously lifted the corner of the napkin she had been handed.

“Chocolate brownie. Newt raves about them,” Anathema said around her own mouthful.

Crowley glared at the treat. This was not just chocolate brownie. This was the type with a sugary skin that gave way to just the right amount of internal goo. The dark chocolate chunks a refreshing bitterness in all that sweetness. The taste reminded her of thunder storms and violet scented-skin.

Anathema was still happily munching.

“I’m not hungry,” Crowley said.

“Get over it. It’s a cake.” Butter, or chocolate chunks, wouldn’t have melted.

“You are being a confrontational, headstrong girl.” Crowley put the offending brownie down by the honey. “And I’m not sure they’re considered cake.”

“You should maybe check that with Aziraphale.”

“Oh, fuck off.” Crowley sipped her wine. “It’s complicated.”

“Oh, fuck off yourself, obstinate old woman.”

Crowley snorted. She liked Anathema. God, she loved having a friend who could see right through her bullshit and still think Crowley was the best person to hang out with.

“Seriously.” Anathema helped herself to Crowley’s brownie. “If you won’t go and see her for your sake do it for mine. Next week is the last pub quiz before Christmas and I am not ending the year losing to _The Young Guns_ because your love life is complicated. We need some perspective here.”

Crowley finished her wine. Fair enough. At Crowley’s best guess Aziraphale had been back just about two weeks. Avoiding each other had turned in to a subtle game of ducking behind supermarket shelves or recalculating routes around shared haunts. There wasn’t much to do at the farm now that all the vegetable beds were tucked up and the green house weatherproofed and Crowley was restless. Her skin tingled with whatever was squirming about inside her.

“Fine,” she snapped.

Anathema grinned.

After they’d packed up the stall Anathema went home and Crowley took her final hit of mulled wine over to the war memorial. She sat on the steps, just out of sight of _Madame Tracy’s_ but with a good view of the door if she moved her head slightly. Eventually, a rather fetching cream beret with white curls peeping out from underneath it, bobbed through the thinning crowd.

Crowley drained her glass and followed it into _The Shepherd’s Crown._

This was not a thing. This would be an accidental meeting which Crowley would orchestrate for Anathema who had kindly helped Crowley scrape herself of her bedroom.

Aziraphale had bagged herself one of the booths at the perfect distance from the fire place. Crowley hastily cleared the condensation from her glasses before popping them back on her nose so she could fully appreciate the back of Aziraphale’s neck as she unwound her scarf. That was new. Not the scarf but the exposed neck. The glances Crowley had got of Aziraphale before they’d both hastily pretended not to see each other had suggested a new haircut. Aziraphale’s bob was longer at the front however and that had left Crowley unprepared for the sheer bounciness of the shorter curls at the back, or how enticing so much angel neck would be.

She went to the bar, also selling mulled wine, and then sauntered in Aziraphale’s general direction. She passed the booth. She stopped at the sound of sharply inhaled breath and turned.

“Don’t they do hot chocolate at _Madame Tracy’s_?” Crowley leaned an elbow on the back of the seat opposite Aziraphale and peered over her glasses. This was all very casual. It was fine.

“The best,” Aziraphale whispered. “I need some quiet to work though.”

As well as the slowly subsiding whipped cream mountain there was an ancient lap top on the booth’s table. It practically wheezed as it fought to load up.

“Working?”

Aziraphale’s cheeks blushed pink. “Just a little thing I wrote in London. Sold it to a popular history magazine. Just a bit of fun, really, but they want the final draft before Christmas.”

Crowley sat down. “A little thing?”

“About the Tadfield Twelve. How depositions in witch trials are generally interpreted and how that tells us more about ourselves than witches.”

“Ah.” Crowley wanted to read it. She wanted to cosy up next to Aziraphale and have her read it to her, explaining all the fancy words and going off on interesting tangents as she did so.

Crowley concentrated very hard on the table between them. “Well done.”

Aziraphale beamed. Crowley melted.

“And how was London?” she croaked.

Aziraphale’s mouth pursed. “Awful.” She pulled her laptop towards her.

“Nice to have you back anyway.” Crowley stood up.

“Is it?”

Those damn eyes were going to be the death of Crowley. She thought of Anathema, and not her own unravelling heart. “’Course it is. Pub quiz coming up. We need out guardian angel of obscure historical facts or the world might just end.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale studied her keyboard. “Oh, alright. Well, if you don’t mind I’ll see you then.”

“Sure. I don’t mind.” Crowley walked away. She left her wine behind.

Inevitably the pub quiz was Christmas themed. That meant Newt really got to shine with his knowledge of former number ones and who had won _Strictly Come Dancing 2018._

Aziraphale picked up the random questions about the origin of St Nicholas and who had been spoil sport enough to close all the theatres.

Anathema named all twelve of Santa’s reindeer and earned high fives from everyone.

Crowley drunk mulled wine and tried not to pull on the curl by Aziraphale’s ear for the pure pleasure of seeing it spring back into place.

It was all fine of course. Everyone was having a good time, and they still kept their place just above _The_ _Young Guns_ in the league table.

Goodbyes were said outside with lots of hugs and season’s greetings. Crowley watched Anathema slip her arm though Newt’s as they made their way across the slippery cobbles towards home.

“That was nice.” Aziraphale blew on her hands. “Thank you for letting me come tonight.”

“Didn’t let you do anything. They’re your friends too, aren’t they?”

“Still, thank you.”

“Shut up.”

Aziraphale smiled. Not quite the full wattage beam, but one that was bright and wistful all in one. “Well, Merry Christmas.”

“Here.” Crowley hadn’t really meant to get Aziraphale a present. It had been an easy thing to do though when everything made her think of Aziraphale. She’d brought it in her bag tonight because the last thing she needed in her house was another unopened box.

Aziraphale took the package without meeting Crowley's gaze. She held it carefully and gave it an experimental shake.

“Open it then. Just a silly thing from the market,” Crowley added when the sound of ripping paper finished.

“Oh, it’s lovely," Aziraphale breathed.

“It’s daft.”

Of course Aziraphale would think a mug with angel wings was lovely. She was a little bit daft too.

“I didn’t get you anything.”

“Didn’t have to. You came back.” Crowley realised that she had made an error in judgement over exactly how much mulled wine she had thought it safe to drink tonight. She had miscalculated by approximately a glass and a half judging by how soppy she sounded.

Oh, shit. Those angel eyes really would be the death of her. Grey and green in the street lights and so impossibly imploring. Crowley could just lean towards all that warmth, wrap herself up in it and finish falling. She was tilting already.

Aziraphale edged forward, clutching the mug to her chest.

Crowley stopped. Oh, this hurt. “Aziraphale. I can’t. I can’t do casual anymore. Not with you.”

“Casual?” Aziraphale's voice was shrill.

“Sorry.” Crowley stepped back again. Space, that’s what she needed. Space and boundaries. “Merry Christmas though. Glad you liked the mug.” Crowley turned quickly and walked home as fast as she could.


	17. Rise To The Occasion Of A Dream Come True

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A conversation is had. Kind of.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song title is from Levitate by Imelda May

_Casual!_

In some other plane of existence, Aziraphale was aware of her body getting itself ready for bed. Water ran and clothing whispered as she shrugged it off. Her brain was all currently occupied with bloody casual. She'd show Crowley who was bloody casual.

There was no sleeping now so Aziraphale replied to Pepper's emails about getting some paperwork processed before Christmas and made herself a cup of tea.

Casual, indeed. Like Aziraphale hadn't just bucked thirty-eight years of good girl habits to come back to Crowley.

"And did you actually tell her any of this, pet?" Aunt Marjorie asked soothingly the next morning.

Aziraphale put down the café chair harder than needed and Aunt Marjorie winced. They were setting up for what would probably be a sleepy Sunday and venting grievances would help the seconds tick by.

"I came back. Crowley didn't think I would, but I did, and..." Aziraphale considered the almost kiss of the night before. "I really don’t see how I could have been more obvious regarding my intentions.”

“You could have told her what you wanted. With words.” Aunt Marjorie tucked her own chair beneath a table. “Just a suggestion.”

Aziraphale blinked. She’d spent so long not bothering to ask for anything she wanted that this was a very new idea. One associated with all sorts of potentially heart breaking risks.

“At least you know what she wants now,” Marjorie added thoughtfully. “So you’re half way there, aren’t you?”

Aziraphale sat down with a huff. “I just don’t understand why she would have thought I’d want anything different to her, that’s all.” And it hurt just a little, if Aziraphale was honest. Hurt enough that rather than calling Crowley back last night Aziraphale had let her walk away and carried herself home on a cloud of righteous indignation.

Marjorie pulled up a chair so she could sit opposite. “Look love, I’m not nearly as psychic as I pretend to be, but I’m guessing that your Crowley hasn’t had a lot of experience with people wanting her for the long haul.”

Aziraphale bit her lip in the face of all Aunt Marjorie’s concern. She thought about the few things Crowley had said about her time in London, and that awful man in that awful picture. She remembered Crowley walking away from her nearly two decades ago. Her heart ached with the weight of it all.

“I’ve been very stupid, haven’t I?” She covered her face with her hands.

Marjorie tutted. “You’ve had your own hurts to consider too.”

Aziraphale nodded. She put her hands in her lap. “I need to show Crowley how much she means to me.”

Aunt Marjorie lifted her eyes to the Heavens. “Or you could just talk to her.”

“I’ll do that too,” Aziraphale said firmly.

It would be Christmas Eve tomorrow and there wouldn’t be enough time or space in Aziraphale’s flat for something truly spectacular. Aziraphale could have used the café’s kitchen, but she very much wanted to be in her own space for this. Aziraphale had been spending too much time with Anathema so lighting candles and playing soothing music on the old CD player to create ambience seemed far more important than sensible, practical things like having a properly working oven or a stand mixer. Crowley’s Christmas present was going to be a process though. There were too many emotions inside Aziraphale for her to reconcile any other way. She was going to tease them out through the coring and peeling of apples, and the whisking of eggs and sugar.

Aziraphale sat on a stool while she sipped at the remaining rum and kept a close eye on the oven. It was an underused, temperamental old thing, but there was time if it all went wrong. The café would be closed tomorrow on Christmas Eve, so she could try again. She wouldn’t need to though, she was sure of it. This cake was half-baking and half-alchemy and all of herself. It wouldn’t dare be anything but perfect.

When Aziraphale slid the French apple cake out of its tin she was satisfied it was as it should be. The sponge sprang back into shape and it smelled cosy and safe. She left it to cool overnight. The next day Aziraphale added a dusting of sugar and moved the cake carefully into its box. It sat on the counter all morning watching Aziraphale as she organised the things that needed to go to _Shangri La_ for Christmas Day.

By three in the afternoon Aziraphale couldn’t stand it anymore. The cake was really becoming quite impertinent sitting there in its box, waiting. Aziraphale took it down stairs and made sure it was nestled snuggly in the bike’s old wicker basket. She rolled the bike out to the street and started to peddle.

Crowley didn’t mind being on her own at Christmas. Anathema had offered. Newt had offered too, wringing his hands and fumbling his words but making it very clear that he wanted Crowley there for Christmas too, and it wasn’t that Anathema was making him ask. Crowley had wanted to pat him on the head. She’d restrained herself, and been polite as she’d firmly refused.

Being a Christmas gooseberry didn’t appeal. She liked battening down the hatches against the world and being all curled up with her drink and her fire, feet swung up on one of the still unpacked boxes, while she watched _Golden Girls_ and _The Good Place_ , and nothing Christmassy.

When the doorbell rang she only answered it because if carol singers had braved it all the way down her unkept track they needed something for their efforts, even if that was a good talking to.

Crowley hauled open the door, glare primed and ready to go.

“Oh!” Aziraphale blinked from behind the shockingly pink box she was holding like a life preserver. “I wondered where that went.”

Ah, crap. Over her black silk pyjamas was wearing a too big Argyle jumper.

“Is it my fault you never asked for it back?” She managed with all the snark she could.

“Well, if I’d known you had it I would have done!” Aziraphale met snark with sass

“Do you want it back?” Crowley challenged.

They locked glares for a moment. Crowley had the advantage of her dark glasses, but Aziraphale was as stubborn as a donkey.

Aziraphale broke the rules, and eye contact, by giving Crowley a once over with a very contemplative spark in her eyes as they took Crowley in. She shook her head, causing those shorter curls to bounce madly. “Keep it. I miss you.”

Present tense. Crowley’s heart fluttered against the very sensible and maintainable boundaries she’d put around it.

“You want me to take that?” Crowley gestured at the box.

Aziraphale thrust it forward. “It’s for you. Merry Christmas.”

When she opened the lid the air became softer, sweeter, the scent of apples and rum. Aziraphale fiddled with the ends of her scarf. Her lips pressed tight together.

So much for boundaries. “Come in,” Crowley said. It was Christmas after all. “I have cake.”

“And booze?” Aziraphale asked.

“So much booze. Come in.”

Crowley’s kitchen felt claustrophobic with Aziraphale hovering in it. Her eyes burned Crowley as she fished a glass out of a box and ladle out the mulled wine. Aziraphale’s gaze became almost scorching when Crowley was close enough to hand the glass over. Their fingers didn’t brush though, and that seemed to be a great relief to both of them.

Aziraphale cupped her glass in both hands. She blew on the wine, sipped it, blew again and then gulped the whole lot down in one go.

“Another?” Crowley asked slightly impressed and mostly concerned.

“Please.” Aziraphale held out her glass.

Crowley returned to the stove and then handed back her refill. She leaned back on the counter and waited.

This time Aziraphale took things slower, but not by much.

“Alright, what’s up, angel?” Crowley asked when half the wine was gone.

“I think I need to talk to you,” Aziraphale told her feet.

“You think?” Crowley suddenly felt the need for more of her own wine. She lounged against the counter and tried to be cool, on the outside at least.

“Look, would you mind awfully…?” Aziraphale waved a hand at Crowley’s face.

Crowley’s insides twisted, but she took them off. She folded the arms and placed them carefully on the counter behind her.

Aziraphale’s shoulders dropped. “Oh, thank you.”

“Well?” There was a lump forming in Crowley’s stomach. Something acidic and unpleasant.

Aziraphale had put down her wine and now had her arms wrapped around her ribs as though she needed them to hold her together. "I'm not going back to Gabriel." The words rushed out in a tangle. Aziraphale held herself tighter and took a breath. She then began to throw words at Crowley so fast it was hard to keep up. If Crowley tried Aziraphale flapped her hands and pleaded not to be derailed.

When the picture of Crowley and Hastur was mentioned, the acid in Crowley’s stomach tickled the back of her throat. “Look…”

Aziraphale’s hands fluttered faster. "You don't need to explain anything to me. You don't. Unless you ever want to talk to me about it, but I understand if I've messed things up completely. That’s not my point…” She then rambled on about Gabriel’s social media account and why she’d got her hair cut. 

Crowley gripped the counter behind her, trying desperately not to drown in the torrent.

When Aziraphale described taking the photo of Gabriel and his PA her eyes lit up. She wiggled with delight describing Gabriel’s response.

Crowley couldn’t help it: she laughed, but her grip on the counter was now almost painful.

“Right. Thank you. For listening.” Aziraphale was sombre again. “I think that's all." She tugged on the bottom of her jumper. It had a snowman with a pompom nose on it. Missed a trick there, hadn’t she? There must be angel ones on line somewhere. That was the easiest thought in Crowley’s brain at the moment. Her fingers ached and she was feeling quite light headed. That would be the hope. It did that to her. Hope and relief, and so much love it physically stung.

Aziraphale blinked. “I’ve taken up enough of your time.” She scurried towards the door.

“Angel?”

Aziraphale stopped, one hand on the kitchen door handle. She didn’t turn round. Probably for the best. It made it easier for Crowley to detach herself from the counter and walk over to join her. Aziraphale stared resolutely at the floor.

“Let me get this right,” Crowley addressed the side of Aziraphale’s head. “You are currently blackmailing your husband to preserve my honour?”

"I wouldn't put it quite like that.” Aziraphale’s lip curled ever so slightly. “I’m also doing it for money."

Crowley snorted. “You beautiful little bitch.”

Aziraphale’s smile blossomed as she glanced sideways. “Quite a lot of money, actually.”

"And you'll be spending your new wealth in Tadfield?" Crowley prompted.

"Yes,” Aziraphale told the kitchen door.

Crowley allowed one finger to twist in the curl just behind Aziraphale’s ear. "So you're staying in Tadfield?"

Aziraphale nodded. Her eyes had fluttered closed and she turned her head towards Crowley. Crowley let her whole hand pet those stupidly bouncy curls and Aziraphale leaned into the touch.

“You’re staying in Tadfield with me?” Hope, relief and love were all very well, but words couldn’t hurt either.

Aziraphale nodded again and opened her eyes. “Yes. Please. And I don’t want bloody casual either. Just so we’re clear.”

Crowley slid her other hand into Aziraphale’s hair so she could cradle her head and, now that she had the word she wanted, kiss her absolutely speechless. This was Aziraphale though, so success was only partial. After a good three minutes of being pressed against the kitchen door she still had the capacity to say: “I’ve changed my mind. I want that jumper back now. Take it off for me, would you darling?”

The jumper ended up on the kitchen floor and Crowley managed to keep Aziraphale’s mouth busy for quite a while after that. They had the cake for breakfast.


	18. I'm Human At My Best

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I've been completely honoured by the love for this fic. Thank you all so much. Have a short, fluffy epilogue lovely people.
> 
> The chapter title is from Human by Imelda May. 
> 
> Also a big thank you to LePetitChou who did some amazing artwork for chapter 3  
> [here](https://pasteboard.co/IVYFPsz.jpg)
> 
> Apologies I couldn't work out how to embed it in the fic itself.

Crowley kept a very close guard on the barbeque. As resident holders of a Y chromosome both Shadwell and Newt hovered nearby with intent. Crowley wouldn’t trust either of them with matches and firelighters as far as she could throw them. Besides it was her house, her barbeque and her damn birthday. So far neither one had been brave enough to offer helpful suggestions.

When Aziraphale had started making Birthday Plans, Crowley had heard the capital letters and shivered down to her core. Her mind snakes threw up images of crowds and bunting all leaping out from behind the sofa and screaming _surprise!_

The reality turned out to be quite manageable. Close friends, because she had those now, plus people from the pub quiz and the farmer’s markets wasn’t so bad. The number that had turned up was simultaneously less than Crowley had been dreading and more than she had been expecting. Crowley clearly needed to give serious consideration to how successful her image of cool loner actually was.

“You’re kidding yourself,” Anathema had said. “Everyone knows you’re a pussy cat.”

“Pussy cats have claws,” Crowley insisted.

Anathema kissed Crowley on the nose and wandered off to terrorize someone else.

Impertinent child! Crowley loved her to bits.

“How are you coping?” Aziraphale slid her arms round Crowley’s waist accompanied by a rustle of blue petticoat. Crowley checked that Shadwell and Newt were still a safe distance from all things flammable. “Fine.”

Aziraphale squeezed Crowley’s ribs.

“Perfect,” Crowley amended.

“I’ll go fetch the salad then.”

“Sure, angel.” 

The petticoat rustled again as Aziraphale walked away. Damn thing, it always made Crowley think of Aziraphale’s curved calves, and then want to look at them.

Newt was the most trustworthy of her audience. Crowley allowed him the honour of plating up the sausages so she could follow Aziraphale to the kitchen.

The bowls of salad had been removed from the fridge, but there was no angel. Crowley followed the sound of Aziraphale’s voice to the front room. She had that aggressively polite edge to it that meant trouble for someone. The someone wasn’t Crowley, so she sidled up to the half opened door and waited, ready to offer hugs if needed, or even if they weren’t, really.

“Gabriel, I understand, but why are you telling me? I have a lawyer for a reason.” Aziraphale stood by the window pinching the bridge of her nose. “Well, Crowley and I have spoken about it and we are all of the view that you stand to lose most if anything _is_ made public.”

She nodded and hmmed a bit while looking at the ceiling. 

“Then perhaps you should have married Sandalphon?” She held the phone away from her ear. “Don’t lecture me about Leviticus! If you think the settlement is unfair have Sandy call Pepper on Monday.” She dropped her free hand to her side, then in the sweetest tone possible added: “Well, fuck you more, sunshine. Sounds like you need it.”

It was quite possibly the sexiest thing Crowley had ever heard.

Aziraphale tossed the phone down and collapsed on the sofa in a whoosh of skirts. Crowley continued to hug the doorframe until Aziraphale moved her head to look at her. “Sorry. How much did you hear?”

Crowley navigated a few cardboard boxes so she could perch on the arm of the sofa. It was just the right height to knead her fingers into Aziraphale’s tense shoulder muscles. 

“Oh, that’s good.” Aziraphale wriggled closer.

“You're fantastic, you know that?” People didn’t generally choose Crowley over other options. Crowley still hadn’t quite got her mind to accept the idea that this was exactly what Aziraphale had done and continued to do on a daily basis. It left Crowley a bit weak kneed, if she were honest.

“How did I live with that man for so long without committing murder?” Aziraphale murmured.

“Angelic forbearance.”

Aziraphale huffed out a laugh. It was nice, but not quite as nice as some of the almost moans Crowley had been coaxing from her with the shoulder rub. She slithered off the arm of the sofa so she could sit astride Aziraphale’s lap. It was her birthday after all, and no one else was using it. 

“We have guests.” Aziraphale’s strong hands slid to Crowley’s thighs pulling her closer.

“And they have hot dogs and wine. They're well taken care off.”

“So am I.” Aziraphale brushed her lips over Crowley’s.

Crowley could have quite happily left it there with illicit birthday smooching followed by returning to the garden, both just slightly more mussed than when they left. She was allowed illicit smooching on her birthday. Aziraphale nibbled her lip, then her hands glided higher up the backs of Crowley’s legs and squeezed.

“Why haven't you moved in here yet?” Crowley gasped.

Aziraphale dropped her hands and her eyes widened. “You've not asked.”

“I think I just did,” Crowley said with mounting terror. Trust her to ruin her own bloody birthday.

Aziraphale cupped her face. “Most of my things _are_ here anyway.”

“There you go then.” Crowley aimed for suave. She missed hitting stupidly relived instead.

“One condition.”

“Anything you like, angel.”

“If we're unpacking my things then we may as well finish unpacking yours as well?” Her toe pointedly nudged a box closer to the wall. 

Crowley paused, she held her breath. The mind snakes were silent. She kissed the top of Aziraphale's head. “Yeah, I'd like that.” 


End file.
